‘It was the least I could do, sir,’ said Cicely in a warm tone. ‘And I might have succeeded had not this goose here blabbed all.’ She turned and entreated: ‘Papa, Maria, have you no word to say?’

Maria buried her head in a cushion. ‘I don’t want to speak to him. Papa, tell him to go away.’ And then, hoping for sympathy: ‘Oh, my poor head! ’Twas terrible, the discomfort.’

This did not produce the desired effect upon Cicely, who, with a show of spirit at her sister’s ill manners, said with some impatience: ‘Fiddlesticks,

Maria. The discomfort of a few hours is better than losing your head. Lud, miss, pretty though it is, ’tis sometimes foolish enough.’

The Squire, agreeing with Cicely that Maria should at least thank the gentleman, said that although he could not yet understand what had happened or what had not happened, he was naturally indebted to the Scarecrow for what he had done, but, damme, he was placed in such an awkward position. As Magistrate he ought to arrest him, at which the Scarecrow, bowing low, asked him if he would care to try.

Sir Antony, knowing that he had not a chance of doing so, blustered to hide his confusion and said that it would be a poor sort of gratitude. ‘And you, sir, know that, or you would not risk being here. But what I want to know is’ — and Sir Antony came to the point — ‘law-breaker as you are, what made you do it?’

‘Call it a whim if you like, sir,’ answered the strange creature, and he turned slightly towards Cicely, ‘though I am more pleased to call it my admiration for high courage. You have a daughter, Sir Antony, you could be proud to call son. Ask me how I knew of her brave venture? I have spies everywhere. Oh, call me what you will — rogue, scoundrel, rascal — aye, Sir Antony, even “smuggler”, but I have ever been in love with the gallant spirit of the Marsh.’

The Squire was beginning to understand. Cicely had done a brave thing. Indeed, she had done a generous thing too, for Maria had never been overkind to her. He warmed to his daughter, and he wished after all she had come and told him what she was going to do, though he knew in his heart of hearts that, being the clumsy fool he was, he would not have been able to help her. He warmed, too, towards this curious mystery of a man before him. He wished to ask him a lot of things, but all that came out was stammered in the usual tongue-tied fashion, that as Lord of the Level he appreciated his sentiments and admired his debt, and damme, admired his ingenuity, but it must have failed him lamentably this time if all he could think of was to send his daughters home to him in barrels. ‘Why the devil did you have to do that, sir?’

The Scarecrow laughingly explained, ‘Because, my dear sir, and I fear you know this is true, the one thing that always crosses the Channel safely is my contraband.’

Cicely went to her father and, putting her arm through his, told him not to worry about how they had travelled, since the important thing was that they were safe, and they had been in great danger. She pointed out to him that though it had been easy to get there for her, it was a different matter when they had tried to leave, because Maria was escaping and she was an aristo. ‘Oh, I know what you are thinking, Papa,’ she said. ‘Damme, sir, they would not dare to touch a Cobtree.’ Here she did such a perfect imitation of Sir Antony himself that even he had to laugh. But she went on seriously, explaining that they would most certainly have dared, that being a Cobtree only heightened the danger since she was an English aristocrat. Being that, of course, the teasing girl had refused point blank to disguise herself as she did in dirty rags, insisting on wearing her latest gown. Indeed they had been followed several times, and on one occasion had been recognized by a dangerous friend of Maria’s treacherous husband. They would have been denounced had it not been for their good friend here. This gentleman had seen to everything. Each time they were in difficulties he appeared. Their papers — the horses — the right word at the Barriers. Oh, she realized now that she could not have done it alone. Going to the Scarecrow, Cicely held out her hands. ‘How best can I thank you, sir?’ she asked. ‘It seems by imploring you to leave; each moment you remain is but adding to your danger.’

At last Sir Antony realized just how much this man had done for his daughters and the danger into which he had placed himself, and he said impulsively: ‘Ay, Cicely, you’re right. The place is littered with Dragoons, and I warrant that confounded Revenue man will not be in a pretty mood when he’s received your present. As my daughter says — the best way to thank you is to ask you to go. So go, sir, and good luck to you, and mind you don’t get caught or I shall lose my thousand guineas.’ Then pulling himself together — remembering that after all he was the Chief Magistrate, he added: ‘Though, mind you, tomorrow I shall have to put out another Proclamation for your arrest.’

The Scarecrow thanked him for his warning and said he would study the new Proclamation carefully — for his own neck told him that he had no wish to see Sir Antony lose his thousand guineas.

‘As to my leaving upon the minute — that I cannot, for I must stay here until the Vicar returns. I have to pay him my tithes. Tonight it will be a considerable sum, since my latest cargo was such a valuable one.’ The last remark was directed to Cicely.

Then, addressing the Squire, he suggested that the ladies must be in need of rest and it would be as well if he escorted them home.

Cicely had been watching him for some time, and with a curious little smile she asked: ‘Could I not stay? Above all things I should like to see a meeting between the Scarecrow and our Doctor Syn.’

‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Cicely,’ he replied, ‘for this is business. Tithes are a tenth of what one is worth, so if you are good at reckoning you might too easily calculate my estimation of your value.’

The Squire, pleased to get back on familiar ground, said that tithes were tithes and all honest men should pay ’em; then realizing that he had said the wrong thing, coughed loudly and prepared to take his leave, waking Maria who was asleep upon the settle.

Bowing with a ‘Your servant, sir,’ he led the sleepy Maria to the door while Cicely, lingering behind, said with a look of amusement which failed to hide the alert expression in her eyes: ‘I am almost certainly going to ask our dear old Doctor Syn to stop preaching his horrid sermons against you.’

Then, turning swiftly, she followed the others and he was left alone.

Cicely crossed the bridge that led from the front door on to the sea-wall. She saw that her father was taking the short cut down the steps and across the Glebe Field. In her present mood she had no mind for more questionings. Nor, indeed, to be whined at by Maria. So she made no haste to catch them up. Standing for a while in the moonlight, she felt almost sad to be at home again though her instinct told her that she should feel differently, because what had made her happy in France was also here in Dymchurch. Her discovery filled her with an exultation she hardly understood. Turning, with her back to the sea, she faced the dark, familiar outline of the Vicarage, standing clear before the ragged silhouette of the rookery, while, brooding over all, the Beacon Knoll of Aldington. This shadowed sky-line seemed to come to life and claim her, as though at this moment it saw her for the first time, and beckoned to her.

And then she knew that she could find the answer to the riddle that it set, just as she knew that now she must follow where that answer led. So, challenging the shadows, she flung her gauntlet gloves down into the Vicarage garden. Then going swiftly down the sea-wall she raced across the Glebe and overtook the others.

‘So here you are, Miss,’ said the Squire. ‘Maria wanted to get home, and I knew if you could find your way to France and back you’d be abel to make the Court House from the Vicarage.’