The Foundling

Chapter XIV

Upon the morning of the Duke’s departure from London, Captain Ware was awakened by the sound of altercation outside his door. Ex-Sergeant Wragby’s voice was raised in indignant refusal to allow anyone to enter his master’s room; and he was freely accusing the unknown intruder of being as drunk as an artillery-man. Captain Ware then heard Nettlebed’s voice, sharpened by fright, and he grinned. He had enjoined Wragby, who had been his trusted servant for several years, not to mention the Duke’s presence in Albany the previous evening to anyone, and as his batman had not been on duty he had no fear of the information’s leaking out. He linked his hands behind his head, and awaited events.

“You looby, if you don’t stand out of my way you’ll get one in the bread-basket as’ll send you to grass!” said Nettlebed fiercely.

“Ho!” retorted Wragby. “Ho, I will, will I? If it’s a bit of home-brewed you’re wanting, you herring-gutted, blubber-headed chinch, put up your mawleys!”

Captain Ware thought it time to intervene, and called: “Wragby! What the devil’s all this kick-up?”

His door burst open unceremoniously, and Wragby and Nettlebed entered locked in one another’s arms.

“See the Captain I must and will!” panted Nettlebed.

“Sir! here’s his Grace’s man, as drunk as a brewer’s horse, and not nine o’clock in the morning!” said Wragby, in virtuous wrath.

“How monstrous!” said Gideon. “Nettlebed, how dare you?”

Nettlebed succeeded in wrenching himself free from Wragby’s grip. “You know well I don’t touch liquor. Master Gideon!” he said angrily. “Nor this isn’t the time for any of your tricks! Sir, his Grace never came home last night!”

Gideon yawned. “Turning Methodist, Nettlebed?”

Wragby gave a snigger. This exasperated Nettlebed into saying hotly: “Think shame to yourself, Master Gideon, a-casting such aspersions upon his Grace! Don’t you go saying as he takes up with bits of muslin, for he don’t and never has! His Grace left his house yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been seen since!”

“Ah, slipped his leash, has he?” said Gideon.

Nettlebed stared at him. “Slipped his leash? I don’t know what you mean, sir!”

“Bring my shaving-water, Wragby, will you?” said Gideon. “I mean, Nettlebed, that I’m surprised he hasn’t done it before. And why you should come to me—”

“Master Gideon, the only hope I had was that his Grace maybe spent the night here!”

“Well, he didn’t. Nor do I know where he is. I daresay he will return in his own good time.”

“Sir,” said Nettlebed, staring at him in horror, “never did I think to hear you, as was always the first to have a care to his Grace, speak in such a way!”

“You fool, how should I speak? His Grace is not a child, for all you and that precious crew he has about him treat him as though he were! I hope it may be a lesson to you, for how he has borne it all these years I know not!”

“Master Gideon, have you thought that his Grace may have been murdered?” Nettlebed demanded.

“I have not. His Grace is very well able to take care of himself.”

Nettlebed wrung his hands. “Never in all the years I’ve served him has he done such a thing! Oh, Master Gideon, I blame myself, I do indeed! I should never have allowed myself to take offence at what—But how could I tell—And he went out, not telling Borrowdale when he meant to come back, and we waited, and waited, and never a sign of him! Borrowdale, and Chigwell, and Turvey, and me, we were sitting up all night, not knowing what to think, nor what to do! Then I thought as how he might have been with you, and I came round on the instant! Master Gideon, what am I to do?”

“You will go back to Sale House, and you will wait until his Grace returns, as he no doubt will do,” replied Gideon. “And when he does return, Nettlebed, see to it that you do not drive him into flight again! You, and Borrowdale, and Chigwell, and Turvey and a dozen others! My cousin is a man, not a schoolboy, and you have so bullied him between you—”

“Bullied him!” exclaimed Nettlebed, his voice breaking. “Master Gideon, I would lay down my life for his Grace!”

“Very likely, and much good would that do him!” said Gideon. He sat up. “Now you may listen to me!” he said sternly, and read his cousin’s stricken henchman a short, telling lecture.

If Nettlebed attended to it, he gave no sign of having done so. He said distractedly: “If only he has not been set upon by footpads! I should go round to Bow Street, perhaps, only that I do not like—”

“If you do that,” said Gideon strongly, “neither his Grace nor my father would ever forgive you! For God’s sake, man, stop flying into a pucker for nothing!”

“It is not nothing to me, sir,” Nettlebed said. “I am sure I ask your pardon for having disturbed you, but it did seem to me that his Grace would have told you—or come to you—but if he did not, then I am wasting my time, and I will go. Captain Ware, sir!”

“Good!” said Gideon heartlessly. “And strive to bear in mind that his Grace is more than twenty-four years old!”

Nettlebed cast him a look of reproach, and left him. Wragby, returning with a jug of hot water, said: “He’ll set ’em all by the ears, he will, sir, you mark my words! If he don’t have the Runners called out it’ll be a wonder!”

“He won’t do that.”

Wragby shook his head. “Fair set-about he is! I couldn’t help compassionating him.”

“He wants a lesson,” replied Gideon. “This should do them all good!”

Nettlebed, speeding back to Sale House, found that Mr. Scriven had arrived there, and, upon learning that nothing had been heard of the Duke since the previous morning, looked very grave, and said that Lord Lionel should instantly be informed. Chigwell then had the happy notion of running round to White’s, to enquire of the porter if his Grace had been seen in the club. The porter said that he had not set eyes on the Duke since he had dined at the club with Lord Gaywood, and, perceiving Chigwell seemed strangely chagrined, asked what had happened to put him so much out of countenance. At any ordinary time, Chigwell would have treated this curiosity in a dignified and quelling way, but his anxiety, coupled with a sleepless night, had robbed him of his poise. He told the porter that he feared his Grace had met with an accident, or fallen a victim to footpads. The porter was suitably shocked and sympathetic, and was soon in possession of all the facts of the story. Chigwell, recollecting himself, said that he was so much worried he hardly knew what he was about, but felt sure that he could trust the porter not to mention the matter. The porter assured him that he was not one to blab; and upon Chigwell’s departure, told one of the waiters that it looked like the young Duke of Sale had been murdered. He then asked every member who entered the club if he had heard the news of his Grace of Sale’s disappearance, so that in a remarkably short space of time a formidable number of persons were discussing the strange story, some taking the view that there was nothing in it, some postulating theories to account for the Duke’s disappearance, and others offering odds on the nature of his fate.

Chigwell, returning to Sale House, found that Captain Belper had called there in the hope of finding the Duke at home, and had of course been regaled by the porter with the story of his strange disappearance. He listened to it, at first with incredulity, and then with a look of dismay. In an agitated voice, he requested the agent-in-chief’s presence. When Scriven joined him in one of the smaller saloons on the ground floor of the mansion, he found him pacing the floor in great perturbation of spirit. Upon the agent’s entrance, he wheeled about, and said without preamble: “Scriven, this news has disturbed me prodigiously! I believe I may hold the answer tothe enigma!”

“Then I beg, sir,” said the agent calmly, “that you will tell me what it may be, for I must consider myself to be in some measure responsible for his Grace’s well-being, and—I must add—safety.”

“Scriven,” said Captain Belper impressively, “I was with the Duke when he purchased, at Manton’s, a pair of duelling pistols!”

They stared at one another, incredulity in Scriven’s face, a certain dramatic satisfaction in the Captain’s.

“I cannot believe that his Grace had become embroiled in any quarrel,” at last pronounced Scriven, “Much less in a quarrel of such a nature as you suggest, sir.”

“Were those pistols delivered at this house?” demanded the Captain. “And if they were so delivered, where are they, Scriven?”

There was a pause, while the agent appeared to consider the matter. Then he bowed slightly, and said: “Give me leave, sir, and I will investigate this matter.”

“Do so!” begged the Captain. “For my heart much misgives me! I remember that I cracked some idle jest to the Duke, when he bought the pair! God forgive me, I had no suspicion, not an inkling, that my words might be striking home!”

Mr. Scriven, who had no taste for the dramatic, refrained from comment, and left the room. He returned a few minutes later, and said gravely: “I cannot admit that the very serious suggestion you have, made, sir, may be correct., but I am obliged to own to you that a package was indeed delivered at this house yesterday, and that his Grace—” he paused, and regarded his fingernails. “And that his Grace,” he resumed, in an expressionless tone, “appears to have taken its contents with him.”

Captain Belper clapped a hand to his brow, ejaculating: “Good God!” He took a pace or two about the room. “He did not confide his purpose to me!” he said. “Had he done so—Yet it struck me that he was not himself! There was something of constraint in his manner. And then his avoidance of a further meeting with me! Ah, I see it now, too late! He feared that I, knowing him as well as I flatter myself I do, must have divined his terrible purpose. Scriven, if any mischance has befallen the Duke I dare not hold myself guiltless!”

“I do not anticipate, sir, that his Grace left his house with any such purpose in mind,” said Mr. Scriven precisely. “And if it were so, I would suggest that his skill with all manner of firearms would make it more likely that a mischance should have befallen his adversary.”

“Very true!” the Captain said, much struck. “It was, after all, I who taught him that skill! And yet how daunting is the thought that you now present to me! Can it be that the Duke has killed his man, and fled the country to escape arrest?”

Mr. Scriven, who, in common with most of the Duke’s dependants, cordially disliked Captain Belper, was extremely loth to admit the possibility of any of his theories being correct, but it was evident from his sudden look of consternation that this suggestion carried weight with him.

After a moment, he said: “I prefer not to consider such a shocking event, sir!”

“Lord Lionel should be instantly apprised!” declared the Captain, smiting his fist into the palm of his other hand.

Mr. Scriven bowed. “I have already sent one of my clerks with a letter for his lordship, sir.”

“Post, I do trust!” the Captain said swiftly.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Then there is little one can do until his lordship comes to town, as I make no doubt he will do. Yet some enquiries might be made with advantage. I shall at once repair to Captain Ware’s chambers.”

Mr. Scriven was then able to inform him, with a certain amount of satisfaction, that Nettlebed had already called in Albany, and that Captain Ware disclaimed all knowledge of the Duke’s whereabouts. When Chigwell came in, to report that his visit to White’s Club had been equally abortive, there seemed to be nothing left for the Captain to do. He did indeed mention the propriety of summoning the Bow Street Runners to their aid, but was speedily snubbed by Mr. Scriven, who took it upon himself to answer for his lordship’s disliking such an extreme action excessively.

By the time Captain Ware strolled into White’s Club that afternoon, the story of his cousin’s disappearance was forming one of the main topics of conversation there. He was at once pounced upon by Lord Gaywood, who had not yet left London for Bath, whither he was eventually bound. Lord Gaywood, who was inclined to make light of the affair, called across the room: “Hey, Ware, what’s this cock-and-bull story about Sale? Here’s Cliveden saying he ain’t been seen since yesterday morning! Is it a bubble?”

Gideon shrugged his big shoulders. “Gone out of town, I daresay. Why should he not?”

“A trifle smokey, isn’t it?” said Mr. Cliveden, raising one eyebrow. “A man don’t commonly leave town without his valet! By what I hear, none of Sale’s servants knows what has become of him.”

“I see there is a notice of his betrothal to your sister in the papers today, too, Gaywood,” remarked a thin little man by the fire. “Very strange!”

“What’s that got to say to anything?” demanded Gaywood, bristling.

The thin man, knowing that his lordship’s temper was erratic, made haste to assure him that he had spoken quite idly. Lord Gaywood eyed him bodingly for a moment, and then transferred his attention to Captain Ware. “Out with it!” he recommended. “I’ll lay a monkey you’re in the secret, Gideon!”

“Not I!” Gideon said lightly. “I’m not Sale’s bear-leader.”

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Cliveden, disappointed. “We were looking for you to settle all bets, Ware! We made sure you would be bound to know the truth. Do you tell me you haven’t seen your cousin?”

“No,” Gideon said, yawning. “I’ve not seen him, and I don’t understand what all the pother is about. Perhaps Sale has gone off to Bath.”

“Not without his valet, or any baggage!” expostulated Mr. Cliveden, shocked.

“Oh, lord, what does it matter?” Gideon said.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Gaywood. “It’s a queer rig, ain’t it? The porter was telling me that Sale’s steward was here this morning, in the deuce of a pucker, asking if he had been in the club.”

“Very likely!” said Gideon, with his most sardonic smile. “Sale’s servants would run all over town seeking for him if he were half an hour late in returning to his house.”

A mild-looking man in the window here ventured to suggest that the Duke might have fallen a victim to footpads, or even to kidnappers, and would have embarked on a bitter dissertation of the shocking state of the London streets and the ineptitude of the Watch, had not Gideon interrupted him with a crack of scornful laughter. “Oh, a revival of Mohocks, no doubt!” he said. “My cousin’s body will in due course be recovered from the river. Or he may return from a day at the races, which would be sadly flat, but rather more probable.”

“What races?” demanded Gaywood.

“Good God, I don’t know!” Gideon replied impatiently?

“No, nor anyone else!” retorted his lordship. “There ain’t any, as you’d know if you kept your eye on Cocker. Of course, he might have gone off to see a mill, but it ain’t much in his line, is it?”

“The thing remains a mystery!” Mr. Cliveden pronounced. “I wonder that you should take it so easily, Ware, for upon my soul I don’t care for the sound of it! I do trust poor Sale may not have met with foul play!”

Two more members came into the room at this moment, and were at once asked if they had heard the news. Foreseeing that the topicwould not lightly be abandoned, Gideon lounged out of the room. The thin man said: “Queer, that! He seemed to set no store by it, did he? Yet one would have thought he must have been the first to have known of his cousin’s intentions. And if he did not I own I should have expected him to show some degree of anxiety. For it can’t be denied that this strange disappearance is of a nature to cause the Duke’s relatives grave disquiet.”

One of the new comers said: “Oh, depend upon it, he knows where Sale is! Sale dined with him last night.”

Everyone’s attention became riveted on the speaker’s face. “Dined with him last night?” echoed Gaywood. “You’re bamming! Ware had not seen Sale: he has just told us so!”

Sir John Aveley opened his eyes at this. “Has he, by Jupiter! Doing it rather too brown, surely! I met Sale on his way to his cousin’s chambers last night.”

There was a sudden silence. The thin man pursed up his mouth, and looked unutterably wise. Gaywood was frowning. After a moment, he said: “Well, if that is so, I daresay Ware had his reasons for keeping mum! Dash it, he and Sale are the best of friends! I should know! Been acquainted with ’em both since my cradle!”

The thin man coughed. “Just so, my dear Gaywood! No doubt he had excellent reasons.”

The man who had come in with Sir John, and who had been wrapped in thought, looked up, exclaiming: “Good God, you don’t suppose—?”

“Certainly not!” said the thin man. “Dear me, no! One only felt that Ware’s reserve was a trifle marked.”

“Fustian!” said Gaywood angrily. “Ten to one, Sale told him the whole, and pledged him to secrecy!”

“Which,” said Cliveden dryly, “brings us back to the riddle of what is the whole? You will own, Gaywood, that for a man of Sale’s position—indeed, for any man!—suddenly to disappear, leaving behind him no message, and no clue to his whereabouts, is something a little out of the ordinary. If rumour is to be believed, he has gone without his valet, or his baggage, or any of his horses. That may do very well for some nameless vagrant, but will hardly do for Sale! No! I must continue to hold by the opinion that there is something excessively smokey about the whole affair. And without wishing to say one word to Ware’s detriment, I feel that considering the peculiar position in which he stands he would do well to be frank.” He spread out his hands, and smiled deprecatingly at Lord Gaywood. “One cannot but feel it to be a singular circumstance that Aveley here should have met Sale actually on his way to dine with his cousin, do not you agree?”

“No, I do not!” snapped Lord Gaywood, and flung out of the room.

He did not find Captain Ware in the club, and learned upon enquiry that he had strolled across the street to the Guard’s Club not ten minutes earlier. Lord Gaywood followed him there, and sent up his name. In due course, Gideon came downstairs. Some imp of malice was grinning in his eyes, and it struck Lord Gaywood, watching him descend the staircase, that he looked rather saturnine. But he was so dark that it was, after all, easy for him to look saturnine. A smile flickered on his mouth; he said in innocent surprise: “Now what, Charlie?”

Lord Gaywood had come in search of him in the spirit of impetuosity which had more than once precipitated him into awkward situations, and he suddenly found it hard to say what was in his mind. However, it was clearly impossible to withdraw leaving it unsaid, so he drew a breath, and said abruptly: “I want a word with you, Gideon!”

Captain Ware looked more than ever amused. “By all means!” he said, and led the way to a small room, which at this hour of the day was deserted. As he closed the door, he said gently: “I murdered him, you know, and buried his body under the fifth stair.”

Lord Gaywood jumped, and coloured hotly. “Damn you, Gideon, I never had such a thought in my head! Stop bamboozling! But where is Gilly?”

“I have not the most distant guess,” replied Gideon.

“Well, if you say so, of course I believe you! But the thing is people have begun to talk, and it ain’t pleasant! I thought I would warn you. Cliveden’s been saying that you’re mighty cool over the business, and there’s no denying that it’s queer, whichever way one looks at it! Naturally, if Gilly took you into his confidence there’s no reason why you should be worrying. But if he did not—” He paused, but Gideon only shook his head. “Well, if he did not, don’t you think he may have met with foul play?”

“No. I have a better opinion of Gilly’s ability to take care of himself.”

“But, Gideon, what should take him to go off like that?” objected Gaywood.

“Perhaps he found life a dead bore,” suggested Gideon.

“That’s a loud one!” remarked Gaywood scornfully. “Why the devil should a man with Sale’s fortune find life, a dead bore?”

“I think it conceivable that he might.”

“I know there never was such a fellow for being hipped,” agreed Gaywood, “but, dash it all, he is but this instant become engaged to my sister, and if you mean to tell me that that has cast him into despondency—”

“Oh, take a damper, Charlie!” recommended Gideon. “Gilly was never a gabster, and no doubt but that he has some very good reason for leaving town which he has not seen fit to divulge to any of us. For anything I know, he has gone to Bath, in a spirit of knight-errantry!”

“Well, I shall soon discover that,” said Gaywood. “I’m going there myself.” He hesitated, casting Gideon a sidelong look.

“Let me know the worst!” said Gideon.

His lordship took the plunge. “Gideon, Aveley is saying that he met Gilly last night, on his way to dine with you!”

“Is he, indeed?” said Gideon.

“It seemed to me that I could do no less than tell you of it,” explained Gaywood, defensively.

“I thank you, Charlie. But I have nothing to add, you know.”

“Oh, very well!” said Gaywood. “But I’ll tell you this! The town will be in an uproar soon!”

Gideon laughed, and his lordship, nettled, picked up his hat, and took his leave of him. Gideon went on laughing.

By nightfall, Lord Lionel had reached London, and was at Sale House, demanding an explanation of Mr. Scriven’s letter to him, which he had no hesitation in calling a nonsensical piece of balderdash. “Where,” barked his lordship, “is his Grace?”

Captain Belper, who, in expectation of Lord Lionel’s arrival, had presented himself at Sale House some time earlier, replied earnestly: “My lord, would to God I knew!”

Lord Lionel had as little liking for the dramatic as Mr. Scriven, and he snorted. “No need to be acting any Cheltenham tragedies, sir!” he said dampingly. “I make no doubt this is a piece of work about nothing! In fact, I was of two minds whether I should come to town, for I depended upon your having comfortable tidings by this time, and to be running about the country after my nephew is the outside of enough!”

Everyone wilted a little at this testy speech. It was left to Mr. Scriven to say: “Only we have no comfortable tidings, my lord.”

“Well, well!” said his lordship, in a tone of displeasure, “I don’t know why you should find it so wonderful that a young man should choose to go off on some business of his own without admitting all of you into his confidence! It vexes me that he should not have taken Nettlebed, for he should not be travelling about without his valet, and so I shall tell him. But there is nothing in that to put you all in a fidget!”

“I think your lordship does not perfectly understand,” replied Scriven. “His Grace cannot have meditated a journey, forhe took no baggage with him, not so much as a valise! And Nettlebed will inform you that his Grace’s brushes, combs—every article appertaining to his toilet, in fact!—are still in his bedchamber here.”

His lordship appeared to be quite thunderstruck by this disclosure, but as soon as he had recovered the use of his tongue, he wheeled about to direct an accusing glare at Nettlebed, and to demand what the devil he meant by it. Nettlebed could only shake his head wretchedly. “Upon my word!” said Lord Lionel terribly. “This is a pretty piece of work! A very ill-managed business I must deem it when with I know not how many of you to care for my nephew he can disappear, and not one of you able to tell me where be is gone!”

At this point it seemed good to Captain Belper to divulge his fear that the Duke had been engaged to fight a duel. Lord Lionel lost no time in demolishing this theory. There was never, he said, anyone less quarrelsome than the Duke; and how, he would thank the Captain to tell him, had he found the time to be picking a quarrel since he came to London? He brushed aside the question of the pistols: if the Duke had a hobby, it was for shooting, and if he might not purchase a pair of pistols without being suspected of having become embroiled in an affair of honour things had come to a pretty pass.

Chigwell ventured to say:—“Yes, my lord, but—but his Grace took the pistols with him. The porter handed the package to him just before he left the house, and he took it into the library, and unwrapped it, for the wrappings were found upon the floor there. But not—not the pistols, my lord!”

“My dread is that my Lord Duke has had the misfortune to wound his adversary fatally,” said Captain Belper, “and has perhaps fled to France to escape the dreadful consequences.”

Lord Lionel seemed to have difficulty in controlling himself. An alarmingly high colour rose to his face, and after champing his jaws for a moment or two, he uttered in outraged accents: “This is beyond everything!”

“I assure you, my lord, I feel this agitating reflection as deeply as your lordship must,” Captain Belper said, with great earnestness.

“Agitating reflection!” exploded Lord Lionel.

“I have been sick with apprehension from the moment it occurred to me. The thought that I might, perhaps, have prevented—”

“Never,” interrupted Lord Lionel, “have I listened to such fustian rubbish! I declare I am vexed to death! And if my nephew were fool enough to do any such thing, which I do not admit, mark you! pray, do you suppose that his seconds would have left us in ignorance of the event? Or do you imagine that he entered upon such an affair without friends to act for him? I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that your apprehensions are woodheaded beyond permission!”

The Captain was not unnaturally abashed by this forthright speech. Before he could come about again, Nettlebed said urgently: “No, my lord, no! Not a duel! His Grace has been foully done to death by footpads! I know it! We shall never see him more!”

“He would go out at night unattended!” mourned Chigwell, wringing his hands.

Lord Lionel stared at them fixedly, and for quite a minute said nothing. Captain Belper was ill-advised enough to interpolate: “It is a matter for the Runners.”

A choleric eye was rolled towards him. Mr. Scriven said smoothly: “I could not feel that such a step should be taken without your lordship’s knowledge, however.”

“I am very much obliged to you!” said his lordship. “A fine dust you would have made, and all for nothing, I daresay! Where’s my son?”

“My lord, I went to Master Gideon—to the Captain, I should say—this morning, but he has not seen his Grace, nor he knows nothing of where he may be!” Nettlebed told him.

“H’m!” Lord Lionel brooded over this. “So he didn’t tell his cousin? I am of the opinion that he is up to some mischief, Scriven! When did he leave this house?”

“It was in the morning, my lord, quite early, I believe. He set out on foot, though Borrowdale here would have sent for his horse.”

“I begged his Grace to allow me to send a message to the stables,” corroborated the butler. “For seeing that his Grace was wearing top-boots and breeches, I assumed—”

“Wearing top-boots, was he?” said Lord Lionel. “That settles it! He had some journey in mind, though why he must needs make a mystery—However, it doesn’t signify! I daresay he meant to have returned last night, but took some fancy into his head, or was in some way detained. I do not by any means despair of seeing him walk in at any moment. Captain Belper, I am keeping you from your bed! I am obliged to you for your solicitude, but I will not have you waiting here upon my nephew’s crotchets. That would never do! Good-night, sir!”

Finding that his lordship’s hand was held out to him, Captain Belper had nothing to do but to take it, to reiterate his fervent desire to be of assistance, and to allow himself to be ushered out of the house by Borrowdale.

“The man’s a fool!” remarked his lordship, as soon as the door was shut. “So are you, Nettlebed! You may be off too!”

“I blame myself, my lord. I should never—”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said Lord Lionel, cutting him short. “His Grace was never set upon in broad daylight, let me tell you!”

He waited until Nettlebed had withdrawn, and then said abruptly: “Was his Grace suffering from any irritation of nerves? Did he seem to you to be in his customary spirits?”

“Perfectly, my lord,” responded Scriven. “Indeed, his Grace had conveyed to me a very gratifying piece of intelligence, desiring me to send an advertisement to the papers of his forthcoming—”

“Yes, yes, I saw the notice! I had looked for a word from his Grace, but I have had no letter from him.” He paused, recalling his conversation with Gilly on the subject of his marriage. “H’m, yes! Well! Nothing had occurred to set up his back? some little nonsense, perhaps? He has sometimes some odd humours!”

“No, my lord, unless it be that his Grace—as I thought—did not quite relish Captain Belper’s companionship,” said Scriven, with his eyes cast down.

“Upon my word I do not blame him!” said his lordship. “I had not thought him to have been such a jackass! I am sorry now that I advised him of his Grace’s coming. But he would not run out of town for such a reason as that!”

The steward gave a little cough. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but it has seemed to me that his Grace was not quite himself. The very evening before he—before he left us, he would go out alone. He would not have his carriage, nor permit us to summon a chair, my lord. Indeed, when I begged him to let me at least call a linkboy he ran out of the house in quite a pet—if your lordship will excuse the word!”

“Well, I daresay that might put him in a fidget, but it is nothing to the purpose, after all! I own that it is a little disturbing that he should stay so long away, but young men are thoughtless, you know! Tomorrow, if there should be no word from him I will make some discreet enquiries. Captain Ware no doubt knows who are his intimates. We shall clear up this mystery speedily enough, I daresay.”

On this bracing note, he dismissed Scriven. But when he was alone he sat for quite an appreciable time, an untasted glass of wine in his hand, and his eyes fixed frowningly upon the glowing coals in the grate. He remembered that Gilly had been foolishly agitated when the question of his marriage had been broached. He hoped that the boy had not made his offer against his will, and fallen into a fit of dejection. He was so quiet there was never any knowing what was in his head. Suddenly his lordship remembered that Gilly had had some odd notion of going to London alone, and of staying in an hotel. It really began to look as though he had had some plan of escaping from his household from the start. But why he should wish to do so Lord Lionel could not imagine. Had he been a wild young blade, like Gaywood, one would have supposed that he was bent on kicking up a lark, but it was surely the height of absurdity to cherish such a suspicion of poor Gilly. Lord Lionel could only hope that his son would be able to throw some light on a problem which was beginning to make him feel extremely uneasy.