The Foundling

Chapter XV

Lord Lionel passed a disturbed night. He came down to breakfast in the expectation of finding a letter from his errant nephew awaiting him; but in despite of the fact that the sum of one pound was paid to the Post Office every year by Mr. Scriven, out of the Duke’s income, to ensure the early delivery of the mail, no such letter gladdened his lordship’s eyes. Matters did not, of course, appear to be quite so desperate as they had seemed during the chill small hours, but there was no denying that Lord Lionel had little appetite for his breakfast. He was curt with Borrowdale, and even brutal to Nettlebed; and when a message was brought to him that Captain Belper had called he instructed the footman to tell this unwelcome visitor that he had gone out.

In a very short time he did go out. He spent the better part of the morning at White’s and at Boodle’s, and, being no fool, was soon able to discern that Gilly’s disappearance was the main topic of conversation amongst the haut ton. Interesting discussions ended abruptly with his entrance into a room; and from several hints that were dropped he discovered, to his wrath, that speculation was rife on his son’s part in the mystery. He had almost gone to Albany when he bethought him of an old crony, and strode off instead to Mount Street. Whatever the on-dits of town might be, it was certain, he reflected grimly, that Timothy Wainfleet would know them all.

He found his friend at home, huddled over a fire in his book-room, and looking at once wizened and alarmingly alert. Sir Timothy welcomed him with exquisite courtesy, gave him a chair by the fire, and a glass of sherry, and murmured that he was enchanted to see him. But it did not seem to Lord Lionel that Sir Timothy was quite as enchanted as he averred, and, being a direct person, he said so, in express terms.

“Dear Lionel!” said Sir Timothy, faintly protesting. “Indeed, you wrong me! Always enchanted, I assure you! And how are the pheasants? You do shoot pheasants in October, do you not?”

“I have not come to talk to you of pheasants,” announced Lord Lionel. “What is more, you know as well as I do when pheasant-shooting begins!”

Sir Timothy’s shrewd grey eyes twinkled ruefully. “Yes, dear Lionel, but I apprehend that I would rather talk of pheasants than—er—than what you have come to talk about!”

“Then you have heard of my nephew’s disappearance?” demanded Lord Lionel.

“Everyone has heard of it,” smiled Sir Timothy. “Yes! Thanks to the folly of Gilly’s steward, who, I find, could think of nothing better to do than to spread the news at White’s! Now, we are old friends, Wainfleet, and I look to you to tell me what is being said in town! For what I hear I don’t like!”

“I wonder why I did not tell my man to deny me?” mused Sir Timothy. “I never listen to gossip, you know. Really, I do not think I can assist you!”

“You listen to nothing else!” retorted Lord Lionel.

Sir Timothy looked at him in melancholy wonder. “I suppose I must have liked you once,” he said plaintively. “I like very few people nowadays; in fact, the number of persons whom I cordially dislike increases almost hourly.”

“All that is nothing to the matter!” declared his lordship. “There is a deal of damned whispering going on in the dubs, and I look to you to tell me what it is I may have to fight. What are the fools saying about my nephew?”

Sir Timothy sighed. “The most received theory, as I apprehend, is that he has been murdered,” he replied calmly.

“Go on!” commanded Lord Lionel. “By my son?”

Sir Timothy winced. “My dear Lionel!” he protested. “Surely we need not waste our time in discussion of absurdities?”

“I am one who likes to see his way!” said his lordship. “If I have to remain here a week, you shall tell me the whole!”

“God forbid!” said his friend piously. “I find you very unrestful, you know: not at all the kind of guest I like to receive! Do pray understand that I do not set the least store by the whisperings of ill-informed persons! But you will agree that there is food and to spare for gossip. I am informed—of course I do not believe it!—that the last man to see your nephew was his cousin, with whom he is said to have dined. A circumstance—always remember, my dear Lionel, that I do but repeat what I hear!—which Captain Ware denies. One Aveley met Sale upon his way to your son’s chambers. No one has set eyes on him since, you know! Malicious persons—the town is full of them!—pretend to perceive a link between this fact, and the notice which lately appeared in the Society journals. So nonsensical! But you know what the world is, my dear friend!”

“My son, in a word,” said Lord Lionel, staling at him with narrowed eyes, “is held to have murdered his cousin upon learning that he is about to marry, and beget heirs?”

SirTimothy raised a deprecating hand. “Not by persons of discrimination, I assure you!” he said.

“It is a damned lie!” said Lord Lionel.

“Naturally, my dear Lionel, naturally! Yet—speaking as your friend, you know!—I do feel that a little openness in dear Gideon—a little less reserve—would be wise at this delicate moment! He has not been—how shall I put it?—precisely conciliating, one feels. In fact, he preserves a silence that is felt to be foolishly obstinate. Strive to consider the facts of this painful affair dispassionately, Lionel! Your nephew—quite one of our wealthiest peers, I am sure! so gratifying, and due in great part, I am persuaded, to your excellent management of his estates!—announces the tidings that he is about to be wed; and within twenty-four hours he visits your son, who afterwards denies all knowledge of his whereabouts. He is not seen again; his servants search for him all over town; you come post from Sale; and the only undisturbed member of his entourage appears to be Gideon, who pursues his usual avocations with unimpaired calm. Now, do understand that not one word of this would you have had from my lips had you not forced me to speak, almost, one might say, at the pistol-mouth! The tale is as nonsensical as most rumours are. I advise you to ignore it. Let me give you some more sherry!”

“Thank you, no! I am going instantly to see my son!” said Lord Lionel harshly. “I collect that I have nursed my nephew’s fortune so that my son may ultimately benefit? Are you sure that I have had no hand in his disappearance?”

“That,” said Sir Timothy gently, “would be absurd, Lionel.”

Lord Lionel left him abruptly, and strode off down Piccadilly, his brow black, and his brain seething with rage. He had naturally no suspicion of his son, but the apparently well-attested information that he must have been the last man to have seen Gilly greatly disturbed him. If it were true, he was no doubt in Gilly’s confidence, but what could have possessed him to have aided and abetted Gilly in this foolish start? Gideon must surely know that his cousin could not be permitted to wander about the country like a nobody, a prey to chills, adventurers, highwaymen, and kidnappers! By the time his lordship had reached Albany, he had worked himself up into a state of anger against his son which demanded an instant outlet. This was denied him. Wragby, admitting him into Gideon’s chambers, said that the Captain had gone on parade, and was not expected to return for another half-hour at least. Lord Lionel glared at him in a way which reminded Wragby of his late Colonel, and said in one of his barks: “I will await the Captain!”

Wragby ushered him into the sitting-room, endured a pungent stricture on the disorder in which his master chose to live, and only just prevented himself from saluting. Lord Lionel, however, recollected without this reminder that he had served in the 1st Foot Guards, and added a few scathing remarks on the customs apparently prevailing in Infantry regiments. Wragby, who was nothing if not loyal, nobly shouldered the blame for the untidiness of the room, said, “Yes, my lord!” and “No, my lord!” at least half a dozen times, and retired in a shattered condition to the kitchen, where he lost no time in venting his feelings on Captain Ware’s hapless batman.

Lord Lionel occupied himself for several minutes in inspecting his son’s library, and uttering “Pish!” in tones of revulsion. Then he paced about the floor for a time, but finding his path impeded by chairs, tables, a paper-rack, and a wine-cooler, he gave this up, and cast himself down in the chair before Gideon’s desk. He had promised his wife that he would write to her as soon as he reached London, and as he had not yet done so he thought he might as well fill in his time in this way as in any other. Amongst the litter of bills and invitation-cards, he found some notepaper, and a bottle of ink. He drew the paper towards him, and then discovered that Gideon, as might, he supposed, have been expected, used a damnable pen that wanted mending. He began to hunt for a knife, and his exasperation mounted steadily. It seemed to him of a piece with all the rest, Gilly’s disappearance included, that Gideon should have no pen-knife. He pulled open one of the drawers in the desk, and turned over a heap of miscellaneous objects in the hope of discovering a knife. He did not find one. He found Gilly’s signet-ring instead.

Captain Ware returned from parade twenty minutes later, and learned from Wragby that his father was awaiting him. He grimaced, but said nothing. His batman made haste to unbuckle his brass cuirass, and his sword-belt; Captain Ware handed his great, crested helmet to Wragby, and lifted an enquiring eyebrow. Wragby cast up both his eyes in a very speaking way, at which the Captain nodded. He stripped off his white gauntlets, tossed them on to the table, flicked the dust from his black-jacked boots, and walked into his sitting-room.

An impartial observer might have thought him a vision to gladden any father’s heart, for his big frame and his dark good looks were admirably suited to the magnificent uniform he wore. But when Lord Lionel, who was standing staring out of the window at the opposite row of chambers, turned to confront him gladness was an emotion conspicuously lacking in his countenance. He was looking appallingly grim, and his eyes held an expression Gideon had never before seen in them.

“I am extremely happy to see you, father,” Gideon said, closing the door. “I hope you have not waited long for me? One of our curst parades! How do you do?”

Lord Lionel ignored both the speech and the outstretched hand. He said, as though the words were wrenched out of him: “For God’s sake, Gideon, where is Gilly?”

“I have not the remotest conjecture,” replied Gideon. “To own the truth, I am a trifle weary of being asked that question.”

“You have not the remotest conjecture?” repeated his father. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

Gideon’s face stiffened; the resemblance between them seemed to grow more marked. “I do, yes,” he said in a level tone.

Lord Lionel held out a hand that shook slightly, “What, Gideon, is this?” he demanded, his hard eyes never wavering from Gideon’s face.

Gideon glanced down at his hand, and saw what lay in the palm of it. “That,” he said, still in that level voice, “is Gilly’s ring, sir. You found it in my desk. I am surprised you do not recognize it.”

“Not recognize it!” exclaimed Lord Lionel. “Do you take me for a fool, Gideon?”

Gideon raised his eyes from the ring, and met his father’s, in a look quite as hard as the one that challenged him. “I did not—no,” he said deliberately. He took the ring out of Lord Lionel’s hand, and restored it to his desk. He turned the key in the lock of the drawer, and removed it. “A precaution I should have taken earlier,” he remarked.

“Gideon!” Lord Lionel’s voice held a note almost of entreaty. “Be open with me, I implore you! Where is Gilly?”

“Don’t you mean, sir, what have I done with Gilly?” suggested Gideon sweetly.

“No!” snapped his lordship. “Nothing would make me believe that you would harm a hair of his head! But when I came upon that ring in your desk—Gideon, do you know what is being said in the clubs?”

“Yes, I have not been so much amused this twelve-month,” replied Gideon. “I own, however, that it does not amuse me very much to discover that you, sir, apparently share the town’s suspicions.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy!” said his lordship, flushing angrily. “A pretty thing it would be if I were to suspect my own son!”

“Just so, sir.”

“I do not!—Understand, I do not! But how came you by that ring, Gideon?”

“Oh, I drew it from the corpse’s finger, of course, sir!” Gideon said sardonically.

“Stop trifling with me!” thundered his lordship. “I have told you I believe nothing against you! If I was shocked to come upon a ring in your desk which Gilly always wears you can scarcely wonder at it!”

“I beg pardon, sir. Gilly handed it to me to keep for him. I have neither the desire nor the expectation to wear it.”

Lord Lionel sat down rather limply on the sofa. “I knew something of the sort must have happened. Where has that tiresome boy gone?”

“I have already told you, sir, that I do not know.”

Lord Lionel regarded him frowningly. “Did he dine with you on the day he disappeared, or did he not?”

“He did.”

“Then, confound you, Gideon, what the devil do you mean by telling everyone you had not seen him?” demanded Lord Lionel.

Gideon shrugged, and put up a hand to unhook his tight collar-band. “Being unable to answer further questions, sir, it seemed to me wisest to deny all knowledge of Adolphus.”

“I wish you will not call him that!” said Lord Lionel peevishly. “Do you mean to tell me he did not tell you what his intentions were?”

“He told me merely that he was blue-devilled, sir: a thing I had perceived for myself,” replied Gideon, with a look under his black brows at his father.

“Blue-devilled!” ejaculated Lord Lionel. “I should like to know what cause he had to feel so!”

Gideon’s lips curled. “Would you, sir? Then, by God, I will tell you! My poor little cousin is beset by persons who wish him nothing but good and since he has by far too sweet a disposition to send you, and Scriven, and Nettlebed, and Chigwell, and—but I forget the names of the rest of his retinue!—to the devil, he has been forced to fly from you all. I do not know where he has gone, or how long he means to stay away, or what purpose he has in mind!”

“Are you mad?” demanded his lordship, staring at him. “I have cared as much for Gilly as if he had been my own son !”

“More, sir, more!”

Lord Lionel gave a gasp. “Good God, boy, are you jealous of Gilly?”

Gideon laughed. “Devil a bit, sir! I thank God your affection for me never led you into shielding me from every wind that blew, or hedging me about with tutors, valets, stewards, and doctors, who would not let me set one foot in front of the other without begging me to take heed I did not step into a puddle!”

There was a moment’s silence. Lord Lionel said, almost pleadingly: “He was left to my care, and he was the sickliest child!”

“Oh, content you, sir, no one blames you for your anxiety when he was a child! But it is time to be done with dry-nursing him, and has been so several years! You will not let him be a man: you treat him still as though he were a schoolboy.”

“It is not true!” Lord Lionel said. “I have been for ever telling him it is time that he asserted himself!”

Gideon grinned. “Ay, so you have, and what have you said when he has made an attempt to do so? You desired him to learn to manage his estates, but when he tried so to do did not you and Scriven tell him that his notions were absurd, and that he must be guided by older and wiser heads?”

Lord Lionel swallowed, and said quite mildly: “Naturally Scriven and I—know better than he can—But this is nonsense, after all! You have said as much to me before, and I told you then—”

“Sir, I warned you not so long since that you would not long ride Adolphus on a curb-bit, and you would not attend to me. Well! You see what has come of it!”

Lord Lionel pulled himself together. “Be silent!” he commanded. “You will do well to remember to whom you speak, sir! Let me tell you this! You are answerable for much in having permitted Gilly to go off in this crazy way!”

Gideon lifted his hand. “Oh, no, sir! You mistake! I have no authority over Gilly! I must be the only one of us all to say so, too!”

“Gideon!” said Lord Lionel, striking his fist on the table. “This is beyond the line of what is amusing! You have let that boy go away without one soul to wait on him, or see that he does not fall into some accident, and however well that may do for another young man, it will not do for him! He has never been obliged to fend for himself; he will not know how to go on; he may become ill through some folly or neglect! I had thought you too much attached to him to have been guilty of such behaviour!”

“Believe me, sir, I am so much attached to him that I hope he will fall into all manner of adventures and scrapes! I have a better opinion of Adolphus than you have, or indeed than he has of himself, and I think he will learn to manage very tolerably. He does not yet know his own value. He is unsure because untried. I hope he will not too speedily return to us.”

“I declare I am out of all patience with such talk!” exclaimed Lord Lionel, starting up. “If you do not know where he is, I am wasting my time with you! I shall leave no stone unturned to find him! When you have come to your senses, you may find me at Sale House!”

Gideon bowed, and strode over to open the door for him. Lord Lionel fairly snatched up his hat and cane from the chair where he had laid them, and left the chambers without another word.

“God help you, Adolphus!” said Gideon, shutting the door.

Just what stones his parent found to turn over in the succeeding two days he was unable to discover. That Lord Lionel was in London still he knew, for he twice met him, and exchanged a few words with him. Lord Lionel was doing what he could to scotch the rumours that were flying about the town, but with indifferent success, his son inferred. These had reached Gideon’s Colonel’s ears, who stated, somewhat elliptically, that he had no desire to interfere in Captain Ware’s private affairs, and supposed he knew what he was about.

“I have every reason, sir, to assure you that my cousin is alive and well,” replied Gideon, very stiff.

“Well, well, no one doubts that!” said the Colonel inaccurately. “No bad thing, however, if you could prove it! Don’t mind telling you I don’t care for the talk that is running round the clubs!”

On the fifth day after the Duke’s disappearance, a letter reached Captain Ware through the medium of the London Penny Post. It was penned by Nettlebed, and was couched in terms mysterious enough to baffle the recipient.

“Sir, and Honoured Captain,” it began, in agitated characters, “This is to inform you, Master Gideon, as is his Grace’s true Friend which I do know and Nobody will convince me Otherwise, that having taken a Notion into my head I am leaving Town at this present, and having his Grace’s wishes in mind not saying nothing to his Lordship, which you will Comprehend, Master Gideon, knowing the ways things are, and me not wishful to do what his Grace would not relish. Master Gideon, sir, there is One who may Know the Answer to why his Grace left us, and I do not know, Sir, why I did not Consider it before, but it come to me in the Night, Sir, but tell his Lordship I will not, being, as you know, Master Gideon, Devoted to His Grace’s Interests, for which I take this Opportunity to Inform you, Sir, as I am gone away on his Grace’s Affairs, and not Deserting my Post. I remain, Master Gideon, Your Respectful Servant, James Nettlebed.”

After perusing this communication, the Captain was not surprised to receive a visit from Lord Lionel, who came to inform him, explosively, that as though things were not already bad enough Gilly’s mutton-headed valet had now disappeared. He was so anxious to learn what his son’s opinion of this unexpected turn might be that he very magnanimously forgave him for their late tiff. But Gideon would only shake his head, and say that it was extremely odd, which made his lordship recall various grudges he had cherished against his son for years, and enumerate them in detail. But here again Gideon behaved in a very unfilial way, refusing to be drawn into a quarrel that might have relieved his parent’s exacerbated feelings, and merely grinning at him in affectionate mockery.

On the sixth day of the Duke’s absence, the letter he had written from Baldock reached Albany, but since Captain Ware’s correspondence was not of a nature to make early postal deliveries a matter of moment, it did not arrive until midway through the morning. The Captain came in at noon to find it awaiting him. He perused it appreciatively, and did not in the least grudge the monies it had cost him to receive it. He tucked it into his pocket-book, and, having won the battle over his worser self, sent off a brief note to his father, informing him that Gilly was alive, in health, and in mischief. He then shed his regimentals, attired himself in a costume suitable for a gentleman bent upon attending a spoiling engagement, and sallied forth in his curricle to Epsom, where he witnessed a meeting between a young pugilist, whom he was inclined to fancy, with a veteran of the Ring. He did not return to his chambers until a very late hour; and as he had given Wragby leave of absence for the day Mr. Liversedge, arriving in London, and making all speed to Albany, knocked in vain on the door of his chambers. Mr. Liversedge was forced to postpone his visit until the following morning, and to put up for the night at the cheapest inn he could discover.

He was sufficiently conversant with, the habits of fashionable gentlemen not to commit the solecism of calling on Captain Ware too early in the morning. Unfortunately he reckoned without Gideon’s military duties, which, on this particular morning, took him out at a time when, according to all the rules, he should have been still abed. Wragby, who three times answered the door to him during the course of the day, informed him roundly that the Captain wouldn’t come home until evening, and wouldn’t receive such an importunate visitor when he did come home.

“He will receive me, my man,” said Mr. Liversedge loftily. “It is a matter of the greatest importance!”

“It may be to you, but it won’t be to him,” replied Wragby, unimpressed, and shut the door in his face.

Nothing daunted, Mr. Liversedge returned to Albany at six o’clock, when the Captain was changing his dress for a convivial gathering at the Castle Tavern. He sent in his card, a circumstance which induced the reluctant Wragby to mention his existence to his master.

Captain Ware picked the card up distastefully, and studied it. “Is it a dun, Wragby?”

“That,” responded his servitor, “is what I thought myself, sir, when I see this Individual first, but not at this hour it ain’t, that’s certain!”

“Oh, well, show him into the parlour! I’ll see him!” said Gideon, returning to the mirror, and wrestling with the exigencies of his cravat.’

He joined his visitor ten minutes later. Mr. Liversedge, who had travelled post from Baldock, at his brother’s expense, was a trifle startled by the formidable proportions of his host. He had been prepared to find that Captain Ware, holding a commission in the Lifeguards, was six foot tall, but his brief acquaintance with Captain Ware’s noble relative had not led him to expect to be confronted by a young giant, with shoulders to match his height, and a cast of countenance which even the greatest optimist would have recognized to be uncompromising in the extreme. He rose from his chair, and executed a profound bow.

Gideon’s hard gray eyes ran over him in one comprehensive glance. “What’s your business with me?” he asked. “I fancy I don’t know you.”

Mr. Liversedge’s experiences as a gentleman’s gentleman led him instantly to recognize and to appreciate the True Quality. He bowed to it again. “Sir,” he said, “I have sought you out on an affair of great moment.”

“Have you, by God?” said Gideon. “Well, be brief, for I am engaged to dine with a party of friends in half an hour!”

Mr. Liversedge cast a conspiratorial glance towards the door. “Am I assured of your private ear, sir?” he asked.

Gideon began to be amused. He walked over to the door leading into the little hall, and opened it, and looked out. He then closed it again, and said with becoming gravity: “No prying ears attend upon us, Mr. Liversedge. You may safely unburden your soul to me!”

“Captain Ware,” said Mr. Liversedge softly, “you have, I apprehend, a Noble Relative.”

Quite suddenly Gideon ceased to be amused. Some instinct for danger, however, prompted him to reply lightly: “I am nearly related to the Duke of Sale.”

Mr. Liversedge smiled approvingly at him. “Exactly so, sir! I fancy I do not err when I say that you stand close to him in the succession to the title, and the prodigious property which appertains to his Grace.”

Not a muscle quivered in the dark face looming above him; the faint, satirical smile still hovered on the Captain’s austere mouth; there was nothing in the lounging pose to warn Mr. Liversedge that the Captain’s every faculty was on the alert. There was a moment’s pause. “Quite close,” drawled Gideon, his eyelids beginning to droop a little over his eyes, in a way which would have put his intimates on their guard. “Sit down, Mr. Liversedge!”

He indicated a chair by the table, in the full light of the oil-lamp which stood on it, and Mr. Liversedge took it, with a word of thanks. He could have wished that the Captain had seen fit to lower his large frame into an opposite chair, but the Captain apparently preferred to prop his shoulders against the high mantelpiece, a little out of the direct beam of the lamp. “Go on, Mr. Liversedge!” he invited cordially.

“His Grace, I further apprehend,” said Mr. Liversedge blandly, “is missing from his residence?”

“As you say,” agreed Gideon.

Mr. Liversedge regarded him soulfully. “What a shocking thing it would be if his Grace were never to return to it!” he said. “His absence must, I am persuaded, be causing his relatives grave disquiet.”

Gideon’s lazy glance dwelled for a thoughtful moment on the strip of sticking-plaster adorning his guest’s brow. Was this the dragon you left for dead, Adolphus? was the silent question in his brain. And just what mischief are you in, my little one? Aloud, he said: “I am sure you are perfectly well-informed on that head, Mr. Liversedge.”

Mr. Liversedge, who had employed his time since his arrival in London in picking up the gleanings of town-scandal, admitted it, but modestly. He then heaved a sigh and said: “One must hope that no accident may have befallen him! Yet how inscrutable are the decrees of Providence, sir! You will have doubtless observed it. There is no knowing what the twists of Fortune may be! Why, I daresay you, Captain Ware,—a worthy scion, I am sure, of a distinguished house!—may never have contemplated the possibility that you might awake one morning to find yourself the heir to your noble relative’s possessions!”

The Captain’s drawl became even more marked. “That, Mr. Liversedge, is a reflection that is bound to intrude upon the mind of a man of ordinary common-sense. Life is, after all, uncertain.”

Mr. Liversedge perceived that his visions were about to be fulfilled. It was pleasant to find that his reading of human character had not been at fault. But he had not seriously supposed that it could be. He smiled approvingly at Gideon, and said: “Yet when one considers that his Grace is a young man, and in the possession of his health and faculties, I daresay anyone would be willing to hazard a large wager against the chances of your becoming second in the line of the succession within—shall we say?—the month!”

“How large a wager?” asked Gideon.

Mr. Liversedge waved one hand in an airy gesture. “Oh, against such odds, sir, I daresay you would venture as much as fifty thousand pounds!”

Gideon shook his head. “I never bet so far above my fortune, Mr. Liversedge. Now, had you offered me a wager that I should not be Duke of Sale within a month—!”

Mr. Liversedge considered his resources rapidly. “Well, I daresay it could be contrived,” he said dubiously.

Gideon very nearly laughed in his face. He overcame the impulse, and said: “You know, I am not such a gamester as you believe, sir. Such wild bets hold little attraction for me. You will own that you would find it hard to raise such a sum, as you would be obliged to do if his Grace should not depart this life within the month.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Liversedge earnestly, “if I entered upon a bet of that magnitude it would only be in the certainty that his Grace would depart this life within the month!”

“How could you have that certainty?” smiled Gideon.

Mr. Liversedge drew a breath. “Captain Ware,” he said. “I am not an unreasonable man. I do not waste your time with frivolous suggestions. More, sir! I do not ignore the peculiar delicacy of your position. Indeed, being myself a man of great sensibility, I have given much thought to your position. Naturally you could not contemplate, in any little arrangement between us, the smallest suggestion of—er—”

“Blood-money,” supplied Gideon.

Mr. Liversedge looked pained. “That, sir, is an ugly phrase, and one which is as repugnant to me as it must be to you. All I offer you is a handsome wager. I am sure there are many seemingly more improbable betsentered in the book at White’s. Not, of course, that this one would be entered there. A simple exchange of notes between us, sir, is all that would be necessary. And here let me assure you that I regard that as a mere formality, customary in affairs of such a nature. My faith in you as a man of honour, Captain Ware, makes it impossible for me to contemplate the necessity of producing your note at some future date.”

“I’m obliged to you,” said Gideon. “But I find my faith in you less securely rooted, Mr. Liversedge. I don’t believe, for instance, that you have it in your power to make me lose such a bet.”

Mr. Liversedge looked reproachful. “It pains me, sir, to encounter mistrust in one with whom I have been so frank. I might add, in one whom I am anxious to benefit. Or should I have told you at the outset that his Grace is at the moment sojourning at a little place quite in the heart of our delightful countryside? When I had the honour of seeing him last, he was wearing an olive riding-coat of excellent tailoring, and a drab Benjamin over it, with four capes. He had a handsome timepiece in his pocket, too; with his crest engraved upon the back, and his initials upon the front. He sighed. “Perhaps I should have brought it to you, sir, but anything savouring of common thievery is very distasteful to me. However, I daresay you may recognize this exquisitely embroidered handkerchief.” He dived a hand into his pocket as he spoke, and produced Gilly’s bloodstained handkerchief.

Gideon took it from him, and for a moment stood staring down at it, his face very pale, and the lines about his mouth and jaw suddenly accentuated. The stains had grown brown, but Gideon knew bloodstains when he saw them, and his gorge rose. He laid the handkerchief down, his long fingers quivering, and raised his head, and looked at Mr. Liversedge. Mr. Liversedge had known from the moment that he had mentioned the olive coat that he had struck home. He had not failed to remark that betraying quiver of the fingers. He smiled indulgently; he would have been excited himself, he reflected, if he realized all at once, as Captain Ware had, how close he stood to a Dukedom. Then he met the Captain’s eyes, and in the very short space of time granted him for rumination he thought that they blazed with the strangest light he had ever seen in a fellow-creature’s eyes. He had even a sensation of being scorched, which was perhaps not surprising, since Gideon was seeing him through a hot, red mist.

The next instant, Mr. Liversedge, no puny figure, had been plucked from his seat, and two iron hands were throttling him remorselessly, shaking him savagely as they did so. While he tore desperately at them, his starting eyes stared up in filming horror into a face dark with rage, with lips curling back from close-shut teeth, and nostrils terrifyingly distended. Before his vision failed, Mr. Liversedge read murder in this face, and knew that for once in his life his judgment had been at fault. Then, as his eyes threatened to burst from their sockets, and his tongue was forced out between his lips, he saw and knew nothing more. As he lost consciousness Gideon cast him from him, and he fell in an inert heap on to the floor.