Faro’s Daughter

Chapter 2

Mr Ravenscar was spared the necessity of trading upon his name and fortune, by encountering upon the doorstep of Lady Bellingham’s house in St James’s Square an acquaintance who was perfectly willing to introduce him to her ladyship. Mr Berkeley Crewe prophesied that the old girl would be delighted to welcome him, assured him that the play was fair, the wine very tolerable, and the suppers the best in town; and said that Lady Bel had quite cast Mrs Sturt and Mrs Hobart into the shade. The door being opened to them by a stalwart individual with a rugged countenance and a cauliflower ear, they passed into the lofty hall, Mr Crewe nodding in a familiar manner to the porter, and saying briefly: “Friend of mine, Wantage.”

Mr Wantage favoured the stranger with an appraising and a ruminative stare before offering to help him off with his greatcoat. Mr Ravenscar returned this with interest. “When were you in the Ring?” he asked.

Mr Wantage seemed pleased. “Ah, it’s a long time ago now!” he said. “Afore I joined the Army, that was. Fancy you aspotting that!”

“It wasn’t difficult,” replied Ravenscar, shaking out his ruffles.

“I was thinking you’d peel to advantage yourself, sir,” observed Mr Wantage.

Mr Ravenscar smiled slightly, but returned no answer. Mr Crewe, having adjusted his satin coat to his satisfaction, given a twitch to his lace, and anxiously scrutinized his appearance in the mirror on the wall, led the way to the staircase. Ravenscar, after glancing about him, and noting that the house was furnished in the first style of elegance, followed him up to a suite of saloons on the first floor.

Entering the gaming-rooms by the first door they came to, they found themselves in an apartment given over to deep basset. About a dozen persons were seated round a table, most of them so intent upon the cards that the entrance of the newcomers passed unnoticed. A deathly hush brooded over the room, in marked contrast to the cheerful hubbub in the adjoining saloon, towards which Mr Crewe led his friend. This was a noble apartment in the front of the house, hung with straw-coloured satin, and furnished with a number of chairs, tables, and stands for the punter’s rouleaus, and their glasses. At one end of the room a faro-bank was in full swing, presided over by a somewhat raddled lady in purple satin and a turban lavishly adorned with ostrich plumes; at the other end, nearer to the fire, a vociferous knot of persons was gathered round an E.O. table, which was being set in motion by a tall young woman with chestnut hair, glowing in the candlelight, and a pair of laughing, dark eyes set under slim, arched brows. Her luxuriant hair was quite simply dressed, without powder, being piled up on the top of her head, and allowed to fall in thick, smooth curls. One of these had slipped forward, as she bent over the table, and lay against her white breast. She looked up as Mr Crewe approached her, and Mr Ravenscar, dispassionately surveying her, had no difficulty at all in understanding why his young relative had so lamentably lost his head. The lady’s eyes were the most expressive and brilliant he had ever seen. Their effect upon an impressionable youth would, he thought, be most destructive. As a connoisseur of female charms, he could not but approve of the picture Miss Grantham presented. She was built on queenly lines, carried her head well, and possessed a pretty wrist, and a neatly turned ankle. She looked to have a good deal of humour, and her voice, when she spoke, was low-pitched and pleasing. On one side of her, lounging over a chairback, an exquisite in a striped coat and a powdered wig watched the spin of the table in a negligent, detached fashion; on the other, Mr Ravenscar’s cousin had no eyes for anything but Miss Grantham’s face.

Miss Grantham, seeing a stranger crossing the room in Mr Crewe’s wake, looked critically at him. Trained by necessity to sum up a man quickly, she was yet hard put to it to place Mr Ravenscar. His plain coat, the absence of any jewels or furbelows, did not argue a fat bank-roll, but his air was one of unconscious assurance, as though he was accustomed to going where he chose, and doing what he pleased in any company. If at first glance she had written him down as a country bumpkin, this impression was swiftly corrected. He might be carelessly dressed, but no country tailor had fashioned that plain coat, she decided.

She turned her head towards the middle-aged exquisite leaning on the chairback. “Who is our new friend, my lord? A Puritan come amongst us?”

The exquisite languidly raised a quizzing-glass, and levelled it. Under its elaborate maquillage his thin, handsome face was curiously lined. His brows went up. “That is no Puritan,, my dear,” he said, in a light, bored voice. “It is a very fat pigeon indeed. In fact, it is Ravenscar.”

This pronouncement brought young Lord Mablethorpe’s head round with a jerk. He stared incredulously at his cousin, and ejaculated: “Max!”

There was astonishment in his tone, not unmixed with suspicion. His fair countenance flushed boyishly, making him look younger than ever, and not a little guilty. He stepped forward, saying rather defensively: “I did not expect to see you here!”

“Why not?” asked Ravenscar calmly.

“I don’t know. That is, I did not think—Do you know Lady Bellingham?”

“I am relying upon Crewe to present me to her.”

“Oh! It was Crewe who brought you!” said his lordship, a little relieved. “I thought—at least, I wondered—But it doesn’t signify!”

Mr Ravenscar eyed him with a kind of bland surprise. “You seem to be most unaccountably put-out by my arrival, Adrian. What have I done to incur your disapproval?”

Lord Mablethorpe blushed more hotly than ever, and grasped his arm in a quick, friendly gesture. “Oh, Max, you fool! Of course you haven’t done anything! Indeed, I’m very glad to see you! I want to make you known to Miss Grantham. Deb! This is my cousin, Mr Ravenscar. I daresay you will have heard of him. He is a notable gamester, I can tell you!”

Miss Deborah Grantham, encountering Mr Ravenscar’s hard grey eyes, was not sure that she liked him. She acknowledged his bow with the smallest of curtseys, and said lightly: “You are very welcome, sir, and have certainly come to the right house. You know Lord Ormskirk, I believe?”

The middle-aged exquisite and Ravenscar exchanged nods. A large, loose-Embed man, standing on the other side of the table, said, with a twinkle: “Don’t be shy, Mr Ravenscar: we’re all mighty anxious to win your money! But, I warn you, Miss Grantham’s luck is in—isn’t it, me darlin’?—and the bank’s been winning this hour and more.”

“It’s commonly the way of E.O. banks—to win,” remarked a metallic, faintly sneering voice at Ravenscar’s elbow. “Servant, Ravenscar!”

Mr Ravenscar, responding to this salutation, made a mental vow to rescue his cousin from the society into which he had been lured if he had to knock him out and kidnap him to do it. The Earl of Ormskirk, Sir James Filey, and—as a comprehensive glance round the room had informed him—all the more hardened gamesters who frequented Pall Mall and its environs were no fit companions for a youth scarcely out of swaddling-bands. It would, at that moment, have given Mr Ravenscar great pleasure to have seen Miss Grantham standing in the pillory, together with her aunt, and every other brelandiere who seduced green young men to ruin in these polite gaming-houses.

Nothing of this appeared in his face as he accepted Miss Grantham’s invitation to make his bet. E.O. tables held not the slightest lure for him, but since he had come to St James’s Square for the purpose of getting upon easy terms with Miss Grantham, and judged that the quickest way of doing this was to spend as much money as possible in her house, he spent the next half-hour punting recklessly on the spin of the table.

Meanwhile, the dowager at the faro-table, who was Lady Bellingham, had discovered his identity, and was pleasantly fluttered. One of her neighbours informed her that Ravenscar had twenty or thirty thousand pounds a year, but tempered these glad tidings by adding that he was said to have the devil’s own luck at all games of chance. If this were so, it was out tonight. Mr Ravenscar went down to the tune of five hundred guineas in the short time he spent at the E.O. table. While affecting an interest he was far from feeling in the gyrations of the little ball, he had the opportunity he sought of observing Miss Grantham. He was also obliged to observe his cousin’s lover-like attentions to the lady, a spectacle which made him feel physically unwell. Adrian’s frank blue eyes openly adored her; he paid very little attention to anyone else; and his attitude towards Lord Ormskirk reminded Ravenscar strongly of a dog guarding a bone.

Ormskirk seemed faintly amused. Several times he addressed some provocative remark to Adrian, as though he derived a sadistic pleasure from baiting the boy. Several times Adrian seemed to be on the verge of bursting into intemperate speech, but on each such occasion Miss Grantham intervened, turning his lordship’s poisoned rapier aside with considerable deftness, tossing a laughing rejoinder to him, soothing Adrian by a swift, intimate smile which seemed to assure him that between him and her there was a secret understanding which Ormskirk’s sallies could not impair.

Ravenscar allowed her to be a very clever young woman, and liked her none the better for it. She was holding two very different lovers on the lightest of reins, and so far she had not tangled the ribbons. But although Adrian might be easy to handle, Ormskirk was of another kidney, reflected Ravenscar, with grim satisfaction.

His lordship, who was nearer fifty years of age than forty, had been twice married, and was again a widower. It was popularly supposed that he had driven both his wives into their graves. He had several daughters, none yet having emerged from the schoolroom, and one son, still in short coats. His household was presided over by his sister, a colourless woman, prone to tears, which perhaps accounted for the fact of his lordship’s being so seldom to be found at home. Both his marriages had been prudent, if unexciting, and since he had for years been in the habit of seeking his pleasures in the arms of a succession of fair Cyprians, it was in the highest degree unlikely that he was contemplating a third venture into matrimony. If he were, he would not look for his new bride in a gaming-house, Mr Ravenscar knew. His designs on Miss Grantham were strictly dishonourable; and, judging by his cool air of ownership, he was very sure of her, too sure to be discomposed by the calf-love of a younger suitor.

But Ravenscar knew Ormskirk too well to feel easy in his mind. If Miss Grantham were to decide that marriage with Adrian would be better worth her while than a more elastic connexion with Ormskirk, Adrian would have acquired a very dangerous enemy. No consideration of his youth would weigh for an instant with one whose pride it was to be considered deadly either with the small-sword, or the pistol. It was perfectly well known to Ravenscar that Ormskirk had thrice killed his man in a duel; and he began to perceive that the extrication of his cousin from Miss Grantham’s toils was a matter of even greater urgency than he had at first supposed.

The third gentleman who appeared to have claims on Miss Grantham was the man who had so cheerfully hailed him upon his first approaching the table. He seemed to be on intimate terms with the lady, but was resented neither by Adrian nor by Lord Ormskirk. He was a pleasant fellow, with smiling eyes, and an engaging address. Mr Ravenscar would have been much surprised to have found that he was not a soldier of fortune. Miss Grantham called him Lucius; he called Miss Grantham his darling, with an easy familiarity that indicated long friendship, or some fonder relationship. Miss Grantham, thought Mr Ravenscar, was altogether too free with her favours.

At one in the morning she relinquished the E.O. table, calling upon Mr Lucius Kennet to take her place at it. “Ah, I’m tired, and want my supper!” she said. “My Lord, will you take me down to supper? I swear I’m famished!”

“With the greatest pleasure on earth, my dear,” said Lord Ormskirk, in his weary voice.

“Oh course I will take you down, Deb!” said Lord Mablethorpe, offering his arm.

She stood between them, laughing dismay in her eyes, looking from one to the other. “Oh, I am overwhelmed, but indeed, indeed—”

Ravenscar walked forward. “Madam, you stand between two fires! Allow me to rescue you! May I have the honour of taking you down to supper?”

“Snatching a brand from the burning?” she said, in a rallying tone. “My lords!” She swept them a deep curtsey. “Pray forgive me!”

“Mr Ravenscar wins all,” said Sir James Filey, with one of his mocking smiles. “It is the way of the world!”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, but she pretended not to hear and passed out of the room on Ravenscar’s arm.

There were already several people in the dining-room on the ground-floor, but Ravenscar found a seat for Miss Grantham at one of the smaller tables arranged beside the wall, and, having supplied her with some pickled salmon, and a glass of iced champagne, he sat down opposite her, picked up his own knife and fork, and said: “You must allow me to tell you, Miss Grantham, that I count myself fortunate in their lordships’ misfortune.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “That’s mighty pretty of you, sir. I had the oddest fancy that you were not much in the way of making pretty speeches.”

“That depends on the company in which I find myself,” he replied.

She eyed him speculatively. “What brought you here?” she asked abruptly.

“Curiosity, Miss Grantham.”

“Is it satisfied?”

“Oh, not yet, ma’am! Let me give you some of these green peas; they are quite excellent!”

“Yes, we pride ourselves on the quality of our suppers,” she said. “Why did you play at E.O.? Is not faro your game?”

“Curiosity again, Miss Grantham. My besetting sin.”

“Curiosity to see a female elbow-shaker, sir?”

“Just so,” he agreed.

“Was that why you came?”

“Of course,” he said coolly.

She laughed. “Well, I did not think when I saw you that you were a gamester!”

“Did you take me for a flat, Miss Grantham?”

Her eyes twinkled rather attractively. “Why, yes, for a moment I did! But Lord Ormskirk put all my hopes to flight. The rich Mr Ravenscar’s luck at the bones or the cards is proverbial.”

“It was out tonight.”

“Oh, you do not care a fig for that silly game! I wish you may not break my aunt’s faro-bank.”

“If you will inform the stalwart person at your door that I am free to enter the house, I promise I shall endeavour to do so when I come again.”

“You must know that all doors are open to the rich Mr Ravenscar—particularly such doors as this.”

“Make it plain, then, to your henchman, or you may have a brawl upon your doorstep.”

“Ah, Silas is too knowing a one! Only law-officers and their spies are refused admittance here, and he would smell one at sixty paces.”

“What a valuable acquisition he must be to you!”

“It would be impossible to imagine an existence without him. He was my father’s sergeant. I have known him from my cradle.”

“Your father was a military man?” said Mr Ravenscar, slightly raising his brows.

“Yes, at one time.”

“And then?”

“You are curious again, Mr Ravenscar?”

“Very.”

“He was a gamester. It runs in the blood, you observe.”

“That would account for your presence here, of course.”

“Oh, I have been familiar with gaming-houses from my childhood up! I can tell a Greek, or a Captain Sharp, within ten minutes of his entering the room; I could play the groom porter for you, or deal for a faro-bank; I can detect a bale of flat conquer deuces as quickly as you could yourself; and the man who can fuzz the cards when I am at the table don’t exist.”

“You astonish me, Miss Grantham. You are indeed accomplished!”

“No,” she said seriously. “It is my business to know those things. I have no accomplishments. I do not sing, or play upon the pianoforte, or paint in water-colours. Those are accomplishments.”

“True,” he agreed. “But why repine? In certain circles they may be de rigueur, but they would be of very little use to you here, I imagine. You were wise to waste no time on such fripperies: you are already perfect for your setting, ma’am.”

“For my setting!” she repeated, flushing a little. “The devil! Your cousin is more complimentary!”

“Yes, I daresay he is,” replied Ravenscar, refilling her wineglass. “My cousin is very young and impressionable.”

“I am sure you, sir, are certainly not impressionable.”

“Not a bit,” he said cheerfully. “But I am perfectly ready to pay you any number of compliments, if that is what you wish.”

She bit her lip, saying, after a moment, with a suggestion of pique in her voice: “I don’t wish it at all.”

“In that cast,” said Ravenscar, “I feel that we shall deal extremely together. Do you play piquet?”

“Certainly.”

“Ah, but I mean do you play well enough to engage in a rubber with me?”

Miss Grantham eyed him with considerable hostility. “I am thought,” she said coldly, “to have a reasonably good understanding.”

“So have many others I could name, but that does not make them good card-players.”

Miss Grantham sat very straight in her chair. Her magnificent eyes flashed. “My skill at cards, Mr Ravenscar, has never yet been called in question!”

“But you have not played with me yet,” he pointed out.

“That is something that can be mended!” she retorted.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Are you sure you dare, Miss Grantham?”

She gave a scornful laugh. “Dare! I? I will meet you when you choose, Mr Ravenscar, the stakes to be fixed by yourself!”

“Then let it be tonight,” he said promptly.

“Let it be at once!” she said, rising from her chair. He too rose, and offered his arm. His countenance was perfectly grave, but she had the impression that he was secretly laughing at her.

On the staircase they met Lord Mablethorpe, on his way down to supper. His face fell when he saw Miss Grantham. He exclaimed: “You have not finished supper already! I made sure of finding you in the dining-room! Oh, do come back, Deb! Come and drink a glass of wine with me!”

“You are too late,” said Ravenscar. “Miss Grantham is promised to me for the next hour.”

“For the next hour! Oh, come now, Max, that’s too bad! You are quizzing me!”

“Nothing of the sort: we are going to play a rubber or two of piquet.”

Adrian laughed. “Oh, poor Deb! Don’t play with him: he’ll fleece you shamefully!”

“If he does, I have a strong notion that it will rather be shamelessly!” Miss Grantham smiled.

“Indeed it will! There is not an ounce of chivalry in my cousin. I wish you will have nothing to do with him! Besides, it is so dull to be playing piquet all night! What is to become of me?”

“Why, if E.O. holds no charms for you, you may come presently and see how I am faring at your cousin’s hands.”

“I shall come to rescue you,” he promised.

She laughed, and passed on up the stairs to the gaming saloons. In the larger room, one or two small tables were set out; Miss Grantham led the way to one of these, and called to a waiter for cards. She looked speculatively at Ravenscar, as he seated himself opposite to her; his eyes met hers, and some gleam of mockery in them convinced her that he had been laughing at her. “You are the strangest man!” she said, in her frank way. “Why did you talk so to me?”

“To whet your curiosity,” he responded, with equal frankness.

“Good God, to what end, pray?”

“To make you play cards with me. You have so many noble admirers, ma’am, who pay you such assiduous court, that I could not suppose that a conciliating address would answer my purpose.”

“So you were rude to me, and rough! Upon my word, I do not know what you deserve, Mr Ravenscar!”

He turned to pick up the piquet-packs the waiter was offering him on a tray, and laid some card-money down in their place. “To be plucked, undoubtedly. What stakes do you like to play for, Miss Grantham?”

“You will recall, sir, that the decision was to rest with you.”

“Well,” he said, “let us make it ten shillings a point, since this is a mere friendly bout.”

Her eyes widened a little, for this was playing deep, but she said coolly: “What you will, sir. If you are satisfied, it is not for me to cavil.”

“What humility, Miss Grantham?” he said, shuffling one of the packs. “If you should find it insipid, we can always double the stakes.”

Miss Grantham agreed to it, and in a moment of bravado suggested that they should play for twenty-five pounds the rubber, in addition. On these terms they settled down to the game, the lady with her nerves on the stretch, the gentleman abominably casual.

It was soon seen that Mr Ravenscar was a much more experienced player than his opponent; his calculation of the odds was very nice; he played his cards well; and had a disconcerting trick of summing up Miss Grantham’s hands with sufficient accuracy to make him a very formidable adversary. She went down on the first rubber, but not heavily, taking him to three games. He agreed that the balance of the luck had been with him.

“I’m emboldened to think you don’t find my play contemptible, at all events,” Miss Grantham said.

“Oh, by no means!” he replied. “Your play is good, for a lady. You are weakest in your discards.”

Miss Grantham cut the pack towards him with something of a snap.

In the middle of the third rubber, Lord Mablethorpe came back into the saloon, and made his way to Miss Grantham’s side. “Are you ruined yet, Deb?” he asked, smiling warmly down at her.

“No such thing! We have lost a rubber apiece, and this one is to decide the issue. Hush, now! I am very much on my mettle, and can’t be distracted.”

He drew up a frail, gilded chair, and sat down astride it, resting his arms on the back. “You said I might watch you!”

“So you may, and bring me good fortune, I hope. Your point is good, Mr Ravenscar.”

“Also my quint, Miss Grantham?”

“That also.”

“Very well, then; a quint, a tierce, fourteen aces, three kings, and eleven cards played, ma’am.”

Miss Grantham cast a frowning glance at the galaxy of court cards which Ravenscar spread before her eyes, and a very dubious glance at the back of the one card remaining in his hand. “Oh, the deuce! All hangs upon this, and I swear there’s nothing to tell me what I should keep!”

“Nothing at all,” he said.

“A diamond!” she said, throwing down the rest of her hand. “You lose,” said Ravenscar, exhibiting a small club. “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted!” groaned Lord Mablethorpe. “Deb, my dearest, I warned you to have nothing to do with Max! Do come away!”

“I am not so poor-spirited! Do you care to continue, sir?”

“With all my heart!” said Mr Ravenscar, gathering up the cards. “You are a good loser, Miss Grantham.”

“Oh, I don’t regard this little reverse, I assure you! I am not rolled up yet!”

As the night wore on, however, she began to go down heavily, as though Ravenscar, trifling with her at first, had decided to exert his skill against her. She thought the luck favoured him, but was forced to acknowledge him to be her master.

“You make me feel like a greenhorn!” she said lightly, when he robbed her of a pique. “Monstrous of you to have kept the spade-guard! I did not look for such usage, indeed!”

“No, you would have thrown the little spade on the slim chance of picking up an ace or a king, would you not?”

“Oh, I always gamble on slim chances—and rarely lose! But you are a cold gamester, Mr Ravenscar!”

“I don’t bet against the odds, I own,” he smiled, beckoning to a waiter. “You’ll take a glass of claret, Miss Grantham?”

“No, not I! Nothing but lemonade, I thank you. I need to have my wits about me in this contest. But this must be our last rubber. I see my aunt going down to the second supper, and judge it must be three o’clock at least.”

Lord Mablethorpe, who had wandered away disconsolately some time before, came back to the table with a tale of losses at faro to report, and a complaint to utter that his Deb was neglecting him for his tiresome cousin. “How’s the tally?” he asked, leaning his hand on the back of her chair.

“Well, I am dipped a trifle, but not above two or three hundred pounds, I fancy.”

He said in an undervoice: “You know I hate you to do this!”

“You are interrupting the game, my dear.”

He muttered: “When we are married I shan’t permit it.”

She looked up, mischievously smiling. “When we are married, you foolish boy, I shall of course do exactly as you wish. Your deal, Mr Ravenscar!”

Mr Ravenscar, on whom this soft dialogue had not been wasted, picked up the pack, and wished that he had Miss Grantham’s throat in his strong, lean hands instead.

The last rubber went very ill for Miss Grantham. Ravenscar won it in two swift games, and announced the sum of her losses to be six hundred pounds. She took this without a blink, and turned in her chair to issue a low-voiced direction to Mr Lucius Kennet, who, with one or two others, had come to watch the progress of the game. He nodded, and moved away towards the adjoining saloon. Sir James Filey said mockingly: “How mistaken of you, my dear, to play against Ravenscar! Someone should have warned you.”

“You, for instance,” said Ravenscar, directing a glance up at him under his black brows. “Once bit twice shy, wasn’t it?”

Miss Grantham, who detested Sir James, cast her late opponent a grateful look. Sir James’s colour darkened, but the smile lingered on his lips, and he said equably: “Oh, picquet’s not my game! I will not meet you there. But in the field of sport, now—! That is a different matter!”

“Which field of sport?” inquired Ravenscar.

“Have you still a pair of match greys in your stable?” said Sir James, drawing out his snuff box.

“What, are you at that again? I still have them, and they will still beat any of the cattle you own.”

“I don’t think so,” said Sir James, taking snuff with an elegant turn of his wrist.

“I wouldn’t bet against them,” said a man in a puce coat, and a tie-wig. “I’d buy them, if you’d sell, Ravenscar.” Mr Ravenscar shook his head.

“Oh, Max wins all his races!” Lord Mablethorpe declared. “He bred those greys, and I’ll swear he wouldn’t part with them for a fortune. Have they ever been beaten, Max?”

“No. Not yet.”

“They have not yet been evenly matched,” said Sir James.

“You thought they were once,” remarked Ravenscar, with a slight smile.

“Oh, admittedly!” replied Filey, with an airy gesture. “I underrated them, like so many other men.”

Mr Lucius Kennet came back into the room, and laid some bills and a number of rouleaus on the table. Miss Grantham pushed them towards Mr Ravenscar. “Your winnings, sir.”

Mr Ravenscar glanced at them indifferently, and, stretching out his hand, picked up two of the bills, and held them crushed between his fingers. “Five hundred pounds on the table, Filey,” he said. “I will engage to drive my greys against any pair you may choose to match ’em with, over any distance you care to set, upon a day to be fixed by yourself.”

Lord Mablethorpe’s eyes sparkled. “A bet! Now what do you say, Filey?”

“Why, this is paltry!” said Sir James. “For five hundred pounds, Ravenscar? You don’t take me seriously, I fear!”

“Oh, we multiply the stake, of course!” said Ravenscar carelessly.

“Now I am with you!” said Sir James, putting his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Multiply it by what?”

“Ten,” said Ravenscar.

Miss Grantham sat very still in her chair, glancing from one man to the other. Lord Mablethorpe gave a whistle. “That’s five thousand!” he said. “I wouldn’t accept it! We all know your greys. Flying too high, Filey!”

“You’d accept it if I offered you odds,” said Ravenscar.

The man in the puce coat gave a laugh. “Gad’s life, there’s some pretty plunging in the wind! Do you take him, Filey?”

“With the greatest readiness in life!” said Sir James. He looked down at Ravenscar, still lying in his chair with one hand thrust deep into his pocket. “You’re very sure of your greys and your skill! .But I fancy I have you this time! Did you say you would offer me odds?”

“I did,” replied Mr Ravenscar imperturbably.

Lord Mablethorpe, who had been watching Sir James, said quickly: “Careful, Max! You don’t know, after all, what kind of a pair he may be setting against your greys!”

“Well, I hope they may be good enough to give me a race,” said Ravenscar.

“Just good enough for that,” smiled Sir James. “What odds will you offer against my unknown pair?”

“Five to one,” replied Ravenscar.

Even Sir James was startled. Lord Mablethorpe gave a groan, and exclaimed: “Max, you’re mad!”

“Or drunk,” suggested the man in the puce coat, shaking his head.

“Nonsense!” said Ravenscar.

“Are you serious?” demanded Filey. “Never more so.”

“Then, by God, I’ll take you! The race to be run a week from today, over a course to be later decided on. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” nodded Ravenscar.

Mr Kennet, who had been following the discussion with bright-eyed interest, said: “Ah,—now, we’ll record this bet, gentlemen! Waiter, fetch up the betting-book!”

Mr Ravenscar glanced at Miss Grantham, his lip curling.

“So you even have a betting-book!” he remarked. “You think of everything, don’t you, ma’am?”