The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Read Online Free PDF Page B

make the move. Since then Piers had been well pleased by the young fellow’s industry and intelligence, and he’d made such progress that he was already assuming some of the duties of steward.
    Even as Cranford ran up, a swipe of Grover’s large fist sent Florian reeling. Cranford ran to steady him and demanded furiously that the big groom control his temper. “Had you not been hogging the entire lane, you’d not now be in this predicament!”
    “And did your pretty gypsy know how to handle the ribbons,
Lieutenant
, sir, there would be no predicament!”
    Cranford turned to face the owner of that harsh and belligerent voice. “My coachman—who is not a gypsy—knows more about horse-flesh than your clumsy bully will ever learn, Finchley,” he responded coldly. “What a pity you do not instruct your people on the unwisdom of schooling a frightened horse with a whip.”
    Major Finchley was a stout individual of late middle age and choleric disposition. He stamped closer, his intense dislike of Piers Cranford causing the hue of his habitually red face to deepen. “I’ve a whip of my own,” he bellowed. “And I give you fair warning, Cranford: If that gypsy whelp you call a servant dares cast his greasy eyes in my daughter’s direction again, I’ll use it to flay him raw; be damned if I don’t!”
    “Nonsense.” said Cranford contemptuously, and glancing at Grover, snapped, ’Tend to your cattle, fellow—and try if you can make your master proud of your skill. Which I doubt.”
    “Curse your insolence,” snarled Finchley. “Don’t use that tone to me, or—” Incoherent, his clenched fist lifted.
    Grover grinned hopefully and stepped beside his employer.
    Florian, pale and his mouth bloodied, all but sprang closer to Cranford.
    The contrast between the opponents was marked, Cranford and Florian looking slight compared to the bulk of the major and his groom.
    Standing very straight as Grover raised the heavy horsewhip, Cranford drawled, “Threats, Finchley? Rate your marksmanship high, do you? Or does your temper outweigh your instinct for self-preservation?”
    The Major started. Losing some of his colour, he said uneasily, “Think to trick me into a duel, do you? Well, you’ll not succeed, damn your eyes, for I’ll not fight over a filthy gypsy.”
    “Indeed?” Cranford enquired curiously, “What will you fight over, I wonder?”
    “You’ll find out soon enough, curse you!”
    “What a pity that I cannot wait for you to reach a decision. Come, Florian. We mustn’t hang about like this.”
    Finchley sent more insults after them as they walked back to their coach, but both the whip and his volume had been lowered.
    “You called his bluff, sir,” said Florian admiringly as he opened the carriage door.
    “They’re a pair of bullies, and bullies retreat when someone faces up to them. But you’ll do well to heed his warning, my lad, and restrain your admiration for his daughter. Both the Major and the charmless Grover would be happy to do you a mischief.”
    Florian said a meek “Yes, sir,” and climbed back onto the box.

    The bank manager’s office was very quiet now, only the shifting coals of the small fire disturbing the silence. It was a mellow, pleasant sort of room, the panelling and the mahogany furnishings reflecting the dignity of its function and imparting an air of polite affluence but not luxury. Cranford thought inconsequently that it smelt like the lair of a bank manager.
    A gust of wind rattled the casements. He glanced out at the lowering skies of early afternoon. It was raining again.
    He knew that Seequist watched him, and he had a hold on his temper now. Meeting the man’s anxious eyes, he said slowly, “Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me why I must see my great-uncle before you will confirm the loan? I am not under the hatches, I believe?”
    “No, no, Mr. Cranford. Your credit is as good as ever, I promise you.” Mr. Seequist was a stout individual, but his