laimed
Copplestone, stepping forward before Audrey could stop him. "Or to this
lady, either. Stand aside, will you?"

Chatfield twisted on his heel with a surprising agility--not to stand
aside, but to wave his arm to the men who stood here and there,
behind him.

"Here, you!" he shouted. "Here, this way, all of you! This here fellow's
threatening me with assault. You lay a finger on me, you young snapper,
and I'll have you in the lock-up in ten minutes. Stand between us, you
men!--he's for knocking me down. Now then!" he went on, as the bodyguard
got between him and Copplestone, "off you go, out o' these grounds, both
of you--quick! I'll have no defiance of my orders from neither gel nor
boy, man nor woman. Out you go, now--or you'll be put out."

But Audrey continued to advance, still watching the agent. "You're under
a mistake, Mr. Chatfield," she said calmly. "You will observe that Mr.
Copplestone and I are on this path. You know very well that this is a
public foot-path, with a proper and legal right-of-way from time
immemorial. You can't turn us off it, you know--without exposing yourself
to all sorts of pains and penalties. You men know that, too," she
continued, turning to the labourers and dropping her bantering tone. "You
all know this is a public footpath. So stand out of our way, or I'll
summon every one of you!"

The last words were spoken with so much force and decision that the three
labourers involuntarily moved aside. But Chatfield hastened to oppose
Audrey's progress, planting himself in front of a wicket-gate which there
stood across the path, and he laughed sneeringly.

"And where would you find money to take summonses out?" he said, with a
look of contempt, "I should think you and your mother's something better
to do with your bit o' money than that. Now then, no more words!--back
you turn!"

Copplestone's temper had been gradually rising during the last few
minutes. Now, at the man's carefully measured taunts, he let it go.
Before Chatfield or the labourers saw what he was at, he sprang on the
agent's big form, grasped him by the neck with one hand, twisted his oak
staff away from him with the other, flung him headlong on the turf, and
raised the staff threateningly.

"Now!" he said, "beg Miss Greyle's pardon, instantly, or I'll split your
wicked old head for you. Quick, man--I mean it!"

Before Chatfield, moaning and groaning, could find his voice capable
of words, Marston Greyle, pale a