"The Baroness is well?"

"Help! help! sir, your honour!" ejaculates Mrs. Betty, and proceeds to
fall on her knees.

"Help whom?"

A howl ensues from Gumbo.

"Gumbo! you scoundrel! has anything happened between Mrs. Betty and
you?" asks the black's master.

Mr. Gumbo steps back with great dignity, laying his hand on his heart,
and saying, "No, sir; nothing hab happened 'twix' this lady and me."

"It's my mistress, sir," cries Betty. "Help! help! here's the letter she
have wrote, sir! They have gone and took her, sir!"

"Is it only that old Molly Esmond? She's known to be over head and heels
in debt! Dry your eyes in the next room, Mrs. Betty, and let me and Mr.
Warrington go on with our game," says my lord, taking up his cards.

"Help! help her!" cries Betty again. "Oh, Mr. Harry! you won't be
a-going on with your cards, when my lady calls out to you to come and
help her! Your honour used to come quick enough when my lady used to
send me to fetch you at Castlewood!"

"Confound you! can't you hold your tongue?" says my lord, with more
choice words and oaths.

But Betty would not cease weeping, and it was decreed that Lord March
was to cease winning for that night. Mr. Warrington rose from his seat,
and made for the bell, saying:

"My dear lord, the game must be over for to-night. My relative writes to
me in great distress, and I am bound to go to her."

"Curse her! Why couldn't she wait till to-morrow?" cries my lord,
testily.

Mr. Warrington ordered a postchaise instantly. His own horses would take
him to Bromley.

"Bet you, you don't do it within the hour! bet you, you don't do it
within five quarters of an hour! bet you four to one--or I'll take your
bet, which you please--that you're not robbed on Blackheath! Bet you,
you are not at Tunbridge Wells before midnight!" cries Lord March.

"Done!" says Mr. Warrington. And my lord carefully notes down the terms
of the four wagers in his pocket-book.

Lady Maria's letter ran as follows:--

"MY DEAR COUSIN--I am fell into a trapp, which I perceive the
machinations of villians. I am a prisner. Betty will tell you all. Ah,
my Henrico! come to the resque of your MOLLY."

In half an hour after the receipt of this missive, Mr. Warrington was
in his postchaise and galloping over Westminster Bridge on the road to
succour his kinswoman.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. Sampson and the Philistines

My happy chance in early life led me to become intimate with a