The Convenient Marriage

Chapter Fifteen

Nothing intervening to cause the Viscount to swerve from his purpose, he pursued a somewhat erratic course back to Half-Moon Street. Finding the door of Lethbridge’s house open, as Horatia had left it, he walked in without ceremony. The door into the saloon was also ajar, and lights shone. The Viscount put his head into the room and looked round.

Lord Lethbridge was seated in a chair by the table, holding his head in his hands. An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor, and a Catogan wig, slightly dishevelled. Hearing a footfall his lordship looked up and stared blankly across at the Viscount.

The Viscount stepped into the room. “Came to see if you was dead,” he said. “Laid Pom odds you weren’t.”

Lethbridge passed his hand across his eyes. “I’m not,” he replied in a faint voice.

“No. I’m sorry,” said the Viscount simply. He wandered over to the table and sat down. “Horry said she killed you, Pom said So she might, I said No. Nonsense.”

Lethbridge, still holding a hand to his aching head, tried to pull himself together. “Did you?” he said. His eyes ran over his self-invited guest. “I see. Let me assure you once more that I am very much alive.”

“Well, I wish you’d put your wig on,” complained the Viscount.—“What I want to know is why did Horry hit you on the head with a poker?”

Lethbridge gingerly felt his bruised scalp. “With a poker, was it? Pray ask her, though I doubt if she will tell you.”

“You shouldn’t keep the front door open,” said the Viscount. “What’s to stop people coming in and hitting you over the head? It’s preposterous.”

“I wish you would go home,” said Lethbridge wearily.

The Viscount surveyed the supper-table with a knowing eye. “Card party?” he inquired.

“No.”

At that moment the voice of Sir Roland Pommeroy was heard, calling to his friend. He too put his head round the door, and, perceiving the Viscount, came in. “You’re to come home,” he said briefly. “Gave my word to my lady I’d take you home.”

The Viscount pointed a finger at his unwilling host. “He ain’t dead, Pom. Told you he wouldn’t be.”

Sir Roland turned to look closely at Lethbridge. “No, he ain’t dead,” he admitted with some reluctance. “Nothing for it but to go home.”

“Blister it, that’s a tame way to end the night,” protested the Viscount. “Play you a game of piquet.”

“Not in this house,” said Lethbridge, picking up his wig and putting it cautiously on his head again.

“Why not in this house?” demanded the Viscount.

The question was destined to remain unanswered. Yet a third visitor had arrived.

“My dear Lethbridge, pray forgive me, but this odious rain! Not a chair to be had, positively not a chair nor a hackney! And your door standing wide I stepped in to shelter. I trust I don’t intrude?” said Mr Drelincourt, peeping into the room.

“Oh, not in the least!” replied Lethbridge ironically. “By all means come in! I rather think that I have no need to introduce Lord Winwood and Sir Roland Pommeroy to you?”

Mr Drelincourt recoiled perceptibly, but tried to compose his sharp features into an expression of indifference. “Oh, in that case—I had no notion you was entertaining, my lord—you must forgive me!”

“I had no notion of it either,” said Lethbridge. “Perhaps you would care to play piquet with Winwood?”

“Really, you must hold me excused!” replied Mr Drelincourt, edging towards the door.

The Viscount, who had been regarding him fixedly, nudged Sir Roland. “There’s that fellow Drelincourt,” he said.

Sir Roland nodded. “Yes, that’s Drelincourt,” he corroborated. “I don’t know why, but I don’t like him, Pel. Never did. Let’s go.”

“Not at all,” said the Viscount with dignity. “Who asked him to come in? Tell me that! “Pon my soul, it’s a nice thing, so it is, if a fellow can come poking his nose into a private card party. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll pull it for him.”

Mr Drelincourt, thoroughly alarmed, cast an imploring glance at Lethbridge, who merely looked saturnine. Sir Roland, however, restrained his friend. “You can’t do that, Pel. Just remembered you fought the fellow. Should have pulled his nose first. Can’t do it now.” He looked round the room with a frown. “Nother thing!” he said. “It was Monty’s card party, wasn’t it? Well, this ain’t Monty’s house. Knew there was something wrong!”

The Viscount sat up, and addressed himself to Lord Lethbridge with some severity. “Is this a card party or is it not?” he demanded.

“It is not,” replied Lethbridge.

The Viscount rose and groped for his hat. “You should have said so before,” he said. “If it ain’t a card party, what the devil is it?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Lethbridge. “It has been puzzling me for some time.”

“If a man gives a party, he ought to know what kind of a party it is,” argued the Viscount. “If you don’t know, how are we to know? It might be a damned soiree, in which case we wouldn’t have come. Let’s go home, Pom.”

He took Sir Roland’s arm and walked with him to the door. There Sir Roland bethought himself of something, and turned back. “Very pleasant evening, my lord,” he said formally, and bowed, and went out in the Viscount’s wake.

Mr Drelincourt waited until the two bottle-companions were well out of earshot, and gave a mirthless titter. “I did not know you was so friendly with Winwood,” he said. “I do trust I have not broke up your party? But the rain, you know! Not a chair to be had.”

“Rid yourself of the notion that any of you are here by my invitation,” said Lethbridge unpleasantly, and moved across to the table.

Something had caught Mr Drelincourt’s eye. He bent, and picked up from under the corner of the Persian rug a ring brooch of diamonds and pearls of antique design. His jaw dropped; he shot a quick, acute glance at Lethbridge, who was tossing off a glass of wine. The next moment the brooch was in his pocket, and as Lethbridge turned he said airily: “I beg a thousand pardons! I daresay the rain will have stopped. You must permit me to take my leave.”

“With pleasure,” said Lethbridge.

Mr Drelincourt’s eye ran over the supper-table laid for two; he wondered where Lethbridge had hidden his fair visitor. “Don’t, I implore you, put yourself to the trouble of coming to the door!”

“I wish to assure myself that it is shut,” said Lethbridge grimly, and ushered him out.

Some hours later the Viscount awoke to a new but considerably advanced day, with the most imperfect recollections of the night’s happenings. He remembered enough, however, to cause him, as soon as he had swallowed some strong coffee, to fling off the bedclothes and spring up, shouting for his valet.

He was sitting before the dressing-table in his shirt-sleeves, arranging his lace cravat, when word was brought to him that Sir Roland Pommeroy was below and desired a word with him.

“Show him up,” said the Viscount briefly, sticking a pin in the cravat. He picked up his solitaire, a narrow band of black ribbon, and was engaged in clipping this round his neck when Sir Roland walked in.

The Viscount looked up and met his friend’s eyes in the mirror. Sir Roland was looking very solemn; he shook his head slightly, and heaved a sigh.

“Don’t need you any longer, Corney,” said the Viscount, dismissing his valet.

The door closed discreetly behind the man. The Viscount swung round in his chair, and leaned his arms along the back of it. “How drunk was I last night?” he demanded.

Sir Roland looked more lugubrious than ever. “Pretty drunk, Pel. You wanted to pull that fellow Drelincourt’s nose.”

“That don’t prove I was drunk,” said the Viscount impatiently. “But I can’t get it out of my head that my sister Rule had something to do with it. Did she or did she not say she hit Lethbridge over the head with a poker?”

“A poker, was it?” exclaimed Sir Roland. “Could not for the life of me remember what it was she said she hit him with! That was it! Then you went off to see if he was dead.” The Viscount cursed softly. “And I took her l’ship home.” He frowned. “And what’s more, she said I was to wait on her this morning!”

“It’s the devil of a business,” muttered the Viscount. “What in God’s name was she doing in the fellow’s house?”

Sir Roland coughed. “Naturally—needn’t tell you—can rely on me, Pel. Awkward affair—mum’s the word.”

The Viscount nodded. “Mighty good of you, Pom. I’ll have to see my sister first thing. You’d best come with me.”

He got up and reached for his waistcoat. Someone scratched on the door, and upon being told to come in, the valet entered with a sealed letter on a salver. The Viscount picked it up and broke the seal.

The note was from Horatia, and was evidently written in great agitation. “Dear Pel: The most Dredful thing has happened. Please come at once. I am quite Distracted. Horry.”

“Waiting for an answer?” the Viscount asked curtly.

“No, my lord.”

“Then send a message to the stables, will you, and tell Jackson to bring the phaeton round.”

Sir Roland, who had watched with concern the reading of the note, thought he had rarely seen his friend turn so pale, and coughed a second time. “Pel, dear old boy—must remind you—she hit him with the poker. Laid him out, you know.”

“Yes,” said the Viscount, looking a trifle less grim. “So she did. Help me into my coat, Pom. We’ll drive round to Grosvenor Square now.”

When, twenty minutes later, the phaeton drew up outside Rule’s house, Sir Roland said that perhaps it would be better if he did not come in, so the Viscount entered the house alone and was shown at once to one of the smaller saloons. Here he found his sister, looking the picture of despair.

She greeted him without recrimination. “Oh, P-Pel, I’m so glad you’ve come! I am quite undone, and you must help me!”

The Viscount laid down his hat and gloves, and said sternly: “Now, Horry, what happened last night? Don’t put yourself in a taking: just tell me!”

“Of course I’m going to tell you!” said Horatia. “I w-went to Richmond House to the b-ball and the fireworks.”

“Never mind about the fireworks,” interrupted the Viscount. “You weren’t at Richmond House, nor anywhere near it, when I met you.”

“No, I was in Half-Moon Street,” said Horatia innocently.

“You went to Lethbridge’s house?”

At the note of accusation in her brother’s voice, Horatia flung up her head. “Yes I did, but if you think I w-went there of my own choice you are quite odious!” Her lip trembled. “Though w-why you should believe that I didn’t, I can’t imagine, for it’s the stupidest tale you ever heard, and I know it d-doesn’t sound true.

“Well, what is the tale?” he asked, drawing up a chair.

She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief. “You see, my shoes p-pinched me, and I left the b-ball early, and it was raining. My c-coach was called, and I suppose I never looked at the footman—indeed, why should I?”

“What the devil has the footman to do with it?” demanded the Viscount.

“Everything,” said Horatia. “He w-wasn’t the right one.”

“I don’t see what odds that makes.”

“ I m-mean he wasn’t one of our servants at all. The c-coach-man wasn’t either. They were L-Lord Lethbridge’s.”

“What?” ejaculated the Viscount, his brow growing black as thunder.

Horatia nodded. “Yes, and they drove me to his house. And I w-went in before I realized.”

The Viscount was moved to expostulate: “Lord, you must have known it wasn’t your house!”

“I tell you I didn’t! I know it sounds stupid, but it was raining, and the f-footman held the umbrella so that I c-couldn’t see m-much and I was inside b-before I knew.”

“Did Lethbridge open the door?”

“N-no, the porter did.”

“Then why the devil didn’t you walk out again?”

“I know I should have,” confessed Horatia, “but then Lord Lethbridge came out of the s-saloon, and asked me to step in. And, P-Pel, I didn’t understand; I thought it was a m-mistake, and I d-didn’t want to make a scene before the p-porter, so I went in. Only n-now I see how foolish it was of me, because if Rule comes to hear of it, and m-makes inquiries, the servants will say I went in w-willingly and so I did!”

“Rule mustn’t hear of this,” said the Viscount grimly.

“No, of c-course he mustn’t, and that’s why I sent for you.”

“Horry, what happened in the saloon? Come, let me hear the whole of it!”

“It was d-dreadful! He said he w-was going to ravish me, and oh, Pel, it was just to revenge himself on R-Rulel So I p-pretended I m-might run away with him, and as soon as he turned his back, I hit him with the p-poker and escaped.”

The Viscount drew a sigh of relief. “That’s all, Horry?”

“No, it isn’t all,” said Horatia desperately. “My g-gown was torn when he k-kissed me, and though I d-didn’t know till I got home, my brooch fell out, and, P-Pel, he’s got it now!”

“Make yourself easy,” said the Viscount, getting up. “He won’t have it long.”

Catching sight of his face, which wore a starkly murderous expression, Horatia cried out: “What are you going to do?”

“Do?” said the Viscount, with a short, ugly laugh. “Cut the dog’s heart out!”

Horatia sprung up suddenly. “P-Pel, you can’t! For g-good-ness’ sake don’t fight him! You know he’s m-much better than you are, and only think of the scandal! P-Pel, you’ll ruin me if you do! You can’t do it!”

The Viscount checked in bitter disgust. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t. Fiend seize it, there must be some way of forcing a quarrel on him without bringing you into it!”

“If you fight him everyone will say it was about m-me, because after you f-fought Crosby people t-talked, and I did silly things—oh, you mustn’t, P-Pel. It’s bad enough with Sir Roland knowing—”

“Pom!” exclaimed the Viscount. “We’ll have him in! He might have a notion how I can manage it.”

“Have him in? W-why, where is he?”

“Outside with the phaeton. You needn’t mind him, Horry; he’s devilish discreet.”

“W-well, if you think he could help us, he can c-come in,” said Horatia dubiously. “But p-please explain it all to him, first, P-Pel, for he must be thinking the most d-dreadful things about me.”

Accordingly, when the Viscount returned presently to the saloon with Sir Roland, that worthy had been put in possession of all the facts. He bowed over Horatia’s hand, and embarked on a somewhat involved apology for his inebriety the night before. The Viscount cut him short. “Never mind about that!” he adjured him. “Can I call Lethbridge out?”

Sir Roland devoted deep thought to this, and after a long pause pronounced the verdict. “No,” he said.

“I m-must say, you’ve got m-much more sense than I thought,” said Horatia approvingly.

“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded the Viscount, “that I’m to sit by while that dog kidnaps my sister, and do nothing? No, damme, I won’t!”

“Devilish hard on you, Pel,” agreed Sir Roland sympathetically. “But it won’t do, you know. Called Drelincourt out. Deal of talk over that. Call Lethbridge out—fatal!”

The Viscount smote the table with his fist. “Hang you, Pom, do you realize what the fellow did?” he cried.

“Very painful affair,” said Sir Roland. “Bad ton. Must hush it up.”

The Viscount seemed to be bereft of words.

“Hush it up now,” said Sir Roland. “Talk dies down—say three months. Pick a quarrel with him then.”

The Viscount brightened. “Ay, so I could. That solves it.”

“S-solves it? It doesn’t!” declared Horatia. “I m-must get my brooch back. If Rule m-misses it, it will all come out.”

“Nonsense!” said her brother. “Say you dropped it in the street.”

“It’s no good saying that! I tell you Lethbridge means m-mischief. He may wear it, just to m-make Rule suspicious.”

Sir Roland was shocked. “Bad blood!” he said. “Never did like the fellow.”

“What sort of brooch is it?” asked the Viscount. “Would Rule be likely to recognize it?”

“Yes, of c-course he would! It’s part of a set, and it’s very old—fifteenth century, I think.”

“In that case,” decided his lordship, “we’ve got to get it back. I’d best go and see Lethbridge at once—though how I’ll keep my hands off him I don’t know. Burn it, a pretty fool I look, calling on him last night!”

Sir Roland was once more plunged in thought. “Won’t do,” he said at last. “If you go asking for a brooch, Lethbridge is bound to guess it’s my lady’s. I’ll go.”

Horatia looked at him with admiration. “Yes, that would be m-much better,” she said. “You are very helpful, I think.”

Sir Roland blushed, and prepared to set forth on his mission. “Beg you won’t give it a thought, ma’am. Affair of delicacy—tact required—a mere nothing!”

“Tact!” said the Viscount. “Tact for a hound like Lethbridge! My God, it makes me sick, so it does! You’d better take the phaeton; I’ll wait for you here.”

Sir Rolaind once more bowed over Horatia’s hand. “Shall hope to put the brooch in your hands within half an hour, ma’am,” he said, and departed.

Left alone with his sister, the Viscount began to pace about the room, growling something under his breath whenever he happened to think of Lethbridge’s iniquity. Presently he stopped short. “Horry, you’ll have to tell Rule. Damme, he’s a right to know!”

“I c-can’t tell him!” Horatia answered with suppressed passion. “Not again!”

“Again?” said his lordship. “What do you mean?”

Horatia hung her head, and recounted haltingly the story of the ridotto at Ranelagh. The Viscount was delighted with at least one part of the story, and slapped his leg with glee.

“Yes, b-but I didn’t know it was Rule, and so I had to confess it all to him the next d-day and I won’t—I won’t make another c-confession! I said I w-wouldn’t see anything of Lethbridge while he was away and I can’t, I c-can’t tell him about this!”

“I don’t see it,” said the Viscount. “Plenty to bear you out. Coachman—what happened to him, by the way?”

“D-drugged,” she replied.

“All the better,” said his lordship. “If the coach came back to the stables without him, obviously you’re telling the truth.”

“But it d-didn’t! He was too clever,” said Horatia bitterly.

“I had the c-coachman in this morning. He thinks it was the b-bad beer, and the coach was taken back to the tavern. So I said I had been forced to get a link-boy to summon me a hackney. And I d-didn’t think it was quite fair to send him off when I knew he and the footman had been d-drugged, so I said this time I wouldn’t tell Rule.”

“That’s bad,” said the Viscount, frowning. “Still, Pom and I know you hit Lethbridge on the head, and got away.”

“It’s no good,” she said mournfully. “Of c-course you would be bound to stand by me, and that’s what Rule would think.”

“But hang it, Horry, why should he?”

“Well, I—well, I w-wasn’t very nice to him b-before he went away, and he wanted me to g-go with him and I wouldn’t, and d-don’t you see, P-Pel, it looks as if I p-planned it all, and hadn’t really given up Lethbridge at all? And I l-left that horrid b-ball early, to make it worse!”

“It don’t look well, certainly,” admitted the Viscount. “Have you quarrelled with Rule?”

“No. N-not quarrelled. Only—No.”

“You’d best tell me, and be done with it,” said his lordship severely. “I suppose you’ve been up to your tricks again. I warned you he wouldn’t stand for ’em.”

“It isn’t that at all!” flamed Horatia. “Only I f-found out that he had planned the R-Ranelagh affair with that odious Lady M-Massey.”

The Viscount stared at her. “You’re raving!” he said calmly.

“I’m not. She was there, and she knew!”

“Who told you he planned it with her?”

“W-well, no one precisely, but Lethbridge thought so, and of course I realized—”

“Lethbridge!” interrupted the Viscount with scorn. “Upon my word, you’re a damned little fool, Horry! Lord, don’t be so simple! A man don’t plot with his mistress against his wife. Never heard such a pack of nonsense!”

Horatia sat up. “P-Pel, do you really think so?” she asked wistfully. “B-But I can’t help remembering that he said she d-did indeed know it was he all the t-time.”

The Viscount regarded her with frank contempt. “Well if he said that it proves she wasn’t in it—if it needs proof, which it don’t. Lord, Horry, I put it to you, would he be likely to say that if she’d had a finger in the pie? What’s more, it explains why the Massey’s gone off to Bath so suddenly, Depepend on it, if she found out it was he in the scarlet domino they had some sort of a scene, and Rule’s not the man to stand that. Wondered what happened to make her go off in such a devil of a hurry. Here, what the deuce—?” For Horatia, with a squeak of joy, had flung herself into his arms.

“Don’t do that,” said the Viscount testily, disengaging himself.

“Oh, P-Pel, I never thought of that!” sighed Horatia.

“You’re a little fool,” said the Viscount.

“Yes, I see I am,” she confessed. “B-but if he has b-broken with that woman, it makes me more than ever decided not to tell him aboutl-last night.”

The Viscount thought this over. “I must say it’s a devilish queer story,” he said. “Daresay you’re right. If we can get that brooch back you’re safe enough. If Pom don’t succeed—” His lip tightened, and he nodded darkly.

Sir Roland, meanwhile, had arrived in Half-Moon Street, and was fortunate enough to find Lord Lethbridge at home.

Lethbridge received him in a gorgeous flowered dressing-gown. He did not look to be much the worse for the blow he had received, and he greeted Sir Roland with suave amiability. “Pray sit down, Pommeroy,” he said. “To what do I owe this somewhat unexpected honour?”

Sir Roland accepted the chair, and proceeded to display his tact. “Most unfortunate thing,” he said. “Last night—not quite myself, you know—lost a brooch. Must have dropped out of my cravat.”

“Oh?” said Lethbridge, looking at him rather hard. “A pin, in fact?”

“Not a pin, no. A brooch. Family jewels—sometimes wear it—don’t care to lose it. So I came round to see if I dropped it here.”

“I see. And what is it like, this brooch?”

“Ring brooch; inner circle pearls and openwork bosses, outer row pearls and diamonds,” said Sir Roland glibly.

“Indeed? A lady’s ornament, one would almost infer.”

“Belonged to my great-aunt,” said Sir Roland, extricating himself from that predicament with masterly skill.

“Ah, no doubt you value it highly then,” remarked his lordship sympathetically.

“Just so,” said Sir Roland. “Sentiment, you know. Should be gla,d to put my hand on it again.”

“I regret infinitely that I am unable to help you. May I suggest that you look for it in Montacute’s house? I think you said you spent the evening there?”

“I didn’t lose it there,” replied Sir Roland firmly. “Naturally went there first.”

Lethbridge shrugged. “How very unfortunate! I fear you must have dropped it in the street.”

“Not in the street, no. Remember having it on just before I came here.”

“Dear me!” said Lethbridge. “What makes you remember so particularly?”

Sir Roland took a moment to think this out. “Remember it because Pel said: “That’s a queer tie-pin, Pom.” And I said: “Belonged to my great-aunt.” Then we came here. Must have had it on then.”

“It would certainly seem so. But perhaps you lost it after you left my house. Or do you remember that Winwood then said: “Where’s your tie-pin?” “

“That’s it,” said Sir Roland, grateful for the assistance. “Pel said: “Why, what’s become of your tie-pin, Pom?” Didn’t come back—time getting on, you know. Knew it would be safe here!”

Lethbridge shook his head. “I fear your recollection is not very clear, Pommeroy. I have not got your brooch.”

There was nothing for Sir Roland to do after that but to take his leave. Lord Lethbridge escorted him out into the hall, and sweetly bade him farewell. “And do pray advise me if you succeed in finding the brooch,” he said with great civility. He watched his crestfallen visitor go off down the steps, and transferred his gaze to the porter’s face. “Send Moxton to me,” he said, and went back into the saloon.

In a few moments his butler appeared. “My lord?”

“When this room was swept this morning, was a brooch found?” asked Lethbridge.

The lids descended discreetly over the butler’s eyes. “I have not heard of it, my lord.”

“Make inquiries.”

“Yes, my lord.”

While the butler was out of the room, Lethbridge stood looking out of the window, slightly frowning. When Moxton came back he turned. “Well?”

“No, my lord.”

The frown lingered. “Very well,” Lethbridge said.

The butler bowed. “Yes, my lord. Your lordship’s luncheon is served.”

Lethbridge went into the dining-room, still attired in his dressing-gown, still wearing a thoughtful, puzzled look on his face.

He sat for some time over his meal, absently sipping his port. He was not, as he had told Caroline Massey, the man to gnash his teeth over his own discomfiture, but the miscarriage of last night’s plans had annoyed him. That little vixen wanted taming. The affair had become tinged, in his mind, with a spotting element. Horatia had won the first encounter; it became a matter of supreme importance to force a second one, which’s,he would not win. The brooch seemed to present him with the opportunity he lacked—if he could only lay his hand on it.

His mind went back; his acute memory re-created for him the sound of ripping lace. He raised his glass to his lips, savouring the port. Ah, yes, undoubtedly the brooch had been lost then. No doubt a distinctive trinket, possibly part of the Drelincourt jewels. He smiled a little, picturing Horatia’s dismay. It could be turned into a shrewd weapon, that ring-brooch—wielded in the right hands.

The brooch was not in his house, unless his servants were lying. He did not, for more than a fleeting moment, suspect any of them of theft. They had been with him some years; probably knew that he was an ill master to cheat.

The image of Mr Drelincourt’s face flashed across his mind. He set down his glass. Crosby. Such a sharp-eyed fellow, Crosby. But had he had the opportunity to pick up a brooch from the floor unseen? He went over his movements during that brief visit. Crosby’s arrival: no chance then. The departure of Winwood and Pommeroy. Had he taken them to the door? No. Still no chance for Crosby. Some talk he had had with him, not very much, for his head had been aching furiously, and then what? His fingers closed again around the stem of his glass, and instantly he remembered drinking a glass of wine to steady himself. Yes, certainly a chance for Crosby then. He had tossed off the wine, and turned. Now, had Crosby had one hand in his pocket? The picture lived again; he could see Crosby standing behind a chair, looking at him, withdrawing his hand from his pocket.

Really, it was quite amusing. There was no proof, of course, not a shadow of proof, but perhaps a visit to Crosby might be not unfruitful. Yes, one might hazard a guess that the brooch was an heirloom. Crosby—an astute fellow: quite needle-sharp—would recognize a Drelincourt heirloom. Decidedly, a visit to Crosby was likely to repay one for one’s trouble. Crosby, no doubt, was hatching a little plan to make mischief between Rule and his bride. Well, he would spare Crosby the pains. There should be mischief enough, but more mischief than the mere displaying of a brooch.

He got up from the table, and went in a leisurely fashion up the stairs, still revolving these delectable thoughts in his head. What a surprise for dear Crosby to receive a call from my Lord Lethbridge! He rang his hand-bell for his valet, and discarding his dressing-gown, sat down before the mirror to complete his elaborate toilet.

On his way, an hour later, to Mr Drelincourt’s lodging, he looked in at White’s but was told upon inquiry that Mr Drelincourt had not been into the Club that day. He went on towards Jermyn Street, twirling his ebony cane.

Mr Drelincourt lived in a house owned by a retired gentleman’s gentleman, who himself opened the door to his lordship. He said that Mr Drelincourt was gone out.

“Perhaps,” said his lordship, “you can give me his direction.”

Oh, yes, that could easily be done. Mr Drelincourt was gone out of town, and had taken a small cloak-bag with him.

“Out of town, eh?” said his lordship, his eyes narrowing. He drew a guinea from his pocket, and began to juggle gently with it. “I wonder, can you tell me where, out of town?”

“Yes, my lord. To Meering,” replied Mr Bridges. “Mr Drelincourt desired me to hire a post-chaise for him, and set off at two o’clock. If your lordship had come twenty minutes ago, you’d have caught him.”

Lethbridge dropped the guinea into his hand. “I may still catch him,” he said, and ran lightly down the steps of the house.

Hailing a hackney, he had himself driven back to Half-Moon Street. His household found itself goaded into sudden activity; a footman was sent off to the stables to order my lord’s light post-chaise and four to be brought round immediately, and my lord went upstairs, calling to his valet to bestir himself, and lay out a travelling dress. In twenty minutes his lordship, now clad in a coat of brown cloth, with his sword at his side, and top-boots on his feet, came out of the house again, gave his postilions certain pithy instructions, and climbed up into the chaise, a light carriage very like a sedan, slung on whip springs over very high wheels. As the equipage rounded the corner into Piccadilly, heading westwards, his lordship leaned back at his ease, calm in the knowledge that no hired post-chaise and four could hope to reach Meering, even with an hour’s start, before being overtaken by him.