A coach-house door was open.

Odd or not--and it certainly looked like fate--that he should be bowing to his lady so shortly after the mishap expelling him, he had to leave the place.

A groom in the yard was hailed, and cheerily informed him he could be driven to Carlsruhe as soon as the coachman had finished his breakfast.

At Carlsruhe a decent refitting might be obtained, and he could return from exile that very day, thanks to the praiseworthy early hours of brave old Germany.
He had swallowed a cup of coffee with a roll of stale bread, in the best of moods, and entered his carriage; he was calling the order to start when a shout surprised his ear: 'The fiddler bolts!' Captain Abrane's was the voice.

About twenty paces behind, Abrane, Fleetwood, and one whom they called Chummy Potts, were wildly waving arms.