y the afternoon the news was all over town that Fanshawe had wounded Rensley in a duel that had taken place that morning in Galliano’s rooms, of all places in the world. Every sort of tale was told. Fanshawe had taken leave of his senses and struck Rensley across the face with his glove: no, it was Rensley struck Fanshawe; faith, it must have been that way, for everyone knew that it was not like Fanshawe to pick a quarrel. The affair had sprung up out of a clear sky: there had been some raillery which Rensley took exception to, and Fanshawe had carried it too far.

Mr Belfort heard it from my Lord Kestrel, and was thunderstruck. My lord told it him between chuckles and with many embellishments, and described, with gesture, the thrust that had put Rensley out of action for many weeks to come. Mr Belfort went hurrying off to confer with Mr Devereux, whom he found writing execrable verse to a lady of uncertain morals, and bore him off straight to Arlington Street.

My lady laughed when the message was brought to Prudence, but Robin looked queerly, and showed a desire to inquire further into the need for a private conference. Prudence said lightly that it was some matter concerning a horse, and escaped before Robin could read the trouble in her face. He had the uncanny knack of it.

She found Mr Belfort looking portentous, and Mr Devereux melancholy. ‘Why, Charles, what ails you?’ she asked. It seemed to her that there was no one but herself had the right to look solemn.

‘My dear fellow, it’s the devil of a business,’ Belfort said severely. ‘A most disgraceful affair, ’pon my soul!’

Mr Devereux shook his head. ‘Very, very disgraceful,’ he echoed.

‘Lud, sir, you horrify me! What’s toward?’

‘Rensley,’ said Belfort, ‘has committed a—damme, a cursed breach of etiquette! You can’t meet the man, Peter. Can he, Dev?’

Mr Devereux was of the opinion that it would be impossible.

A flush sprang up in Prudence’s cheeks. It was of sudden, overwhelming relief, but Mr Belfort took it to betoken anger. ‘Ay, Peter my boy, I knew you’d take it hard, but positively you can’t meet the man after such a slight.’

‘Very shocking business,’ Mr Devereux said mournfully. ‘Can’t understand it at all.’

Prudence had command of herself again. If she must not fight it seemed safe enough to protest a little, as was proper. ‘But pray let me hear what it is!’ she said. ‘I don’t draw back from an encounter, Charles, be sure.’

‘It’s Rensley has drawn back,’ Mr Belfort said, still with awful solemnity.

‘Not drawn back, Bel. You couldn’t say he had drawn back,’ protested Mr Devereux.

‘It’s the same thing, Dev. He can’t meet Peter tomorrow, and I say it’s a cursed insult. I shall tell Jessup our man won’t fight.’

‘Has Rensley fled the country?’ demanded Prudence.

‘Worse, my dear boy!’

‘Not worse, Bel! Hardly worse! Plaguey unfortunate happening.’

Mr Belfort laid an impressive finger on Prudence’s shoulder. ‘He’s offered us a damned slight, Peter. It can’t be swallowed. Take my word for it, there can be no meeting.’

‘Why, Charles, you mystify me! Let me know what this slight is I beg of you.’

‘He has fought another man this morning,’ said Mr Belfort, and stood back to observe the effect of this terrific pronouncement.

Prudence was all honest incredulity. ‘You tell me he has met some one else in a duel?’ she cried. It seemed to be a positive dispensation of a kindly Providence, but it would not do to let the gentleman suspect she felt this. She affected anger. ‘He sets me aside, you would tell me! It’s for some later quarrel? You call it a slight! You’re moderate, Charles!’

‘Devilish irregular,’ said Mr Devereux. ‘I was monstrous shocked when I heard of it, give you my word. They say there’s a tendon cut in his sword arm that won’t heal this many a day. Quite impossible to meet him.’

‘But apart from that, Dev—apart from that, mind you, I would not have our man swallow such a cursed piece of rudeness,’ Mr Belfort reminded him. ‘Our quarrel came first, demm it!’ A frown marred the cherubic look in his face. ‘And what’s more, Dev, Fanshawe knew it!’

‘Fanshawe!’ the exclamation broke from Prudence, who stood staring.

‘Fanshawe himself,’ nodded Belfort. ‘And I saw him this morning, and somehow or other the thing slipped out, and I told him you were to meet Rensley.’

‘But—you say Fanshawe is the man who fought Rensley?’

‘You may well ask, Peter. Fanshawe it was. Found our man at Galliano’s, and forced a quarrel on him.’

‘Carslake tells me it all began as a jest, Bel,’ pleaded Mr Devereux.

‘Jest or no, Dev, the man had no business to meet Fanshawe till our little affair was settled. And so I shall tell Jessup.’

‘But why did Sir Anthony——?’

‘Ah, that’s the question,’ nodded Belfort. ‘I don’t know, but they do say he told Rensley he was a poltroon, and struck him in the face with his glove. Kestrel—he was there, y’know—will have it Tony was out for a fight from the first, but Orton thinks it all sprang up out of naught.’

An idea struck Mr Devereux. ‘’Pon my soul, Merriot, you might call Fanshawe out, so you might!’

Prudence laughed, and shook her head. ‘Oh, hold me excused! I count Sir Anthony very much my friend, in spite of this day’s work.’

Mr Belfort pondered it. ‘I don’t see that, Dev. No, I don’t see that he can do that. But as for meeting Rensley after this, it’s not to be thought of. Mind that, Peter! Not to be thought of!’

Prudence assumed an air of hesitation, and made some demur. It seemed safe. She was sternly over-ruled, but Mr Devereux said it did her credit. He went off with Mr Belfort to wait upon Mr Rensley’s seconds.

Prudence was left to make what she might of it. On the face of it, it looked as though the large gentleman had once more scared away the wolf. But why? That gave food for serious reflection. What did he suspect, forsooth? Or had he merely a mind to interpose on behalf of a boy for whom he had some kindness? She could not think he had pierced her disguise; faith, it was too good for that, surely! She went upstairs to Robin, and gave him the full sum of it.

Robin threw her a straight look under his lashes. ‘I’m to understand you had it in mind to meet Rensley with never a word to me?’

‘Just, child. Don’t eat me!’

‘I’m more likely to beat you. You must be mad indeed!’

She perceived him to be in something of a rage, and made haste to divert him. ‘I’ve to thank Sir Anthony, for my deliverance. What have you to say to that?’

‘You’re of opinion he has your secret? You must have been mighty indiscreet!’

‘Not a whit. I’ve given not the smallest reason for him to suspect me, I swear. Unless——’ She broke off, frowning. ‘There was the little matter of staying with him at Wych End. No more.’

Robin shrugged that aside. ‘I hold to my opinion. But if he suspects—why, it seems he’s a mind to keep his counsel.’

‘It’s a comfortable belief, child. Give you joy of it. I dine with him to-morrow. Be sure, I step warily.’

In another part of the town there was a gentleman quite as shocked as Mr Belfort over the morning’s happenings, and infinitely more enraged. Mr Markham went off to Grosvenor Square, and found his friend Rensley abed, and very sore.

Mr Markham broke out with a ‘What’s to do now, a’ God’s name?’

Rensley lay staring at the bedpost, and said only:—‘Fanshawe forced the quarrel on to me.’

‘God’s life, were you not pledged to Merriot?’

‘Oh ay, you’re mighty anxious to see him trounced, aren’t you?’

‘To hell with that!’ All Mr Markham’s nattering deference towards his friend was fast departing. ‘Here’s Belfort and Devereux mighty haughty—damme, they’ve reason!—and say their man won’t fight. And Jessup and I have to make your excuses for you, and look a pair of fools! You make us ridiculous, Rensley, curse it!’

Mr Rensley received this in silence.

‘Burn it, you must needs spoil all!’ Markham said in disgust. ‘What madness took you?’

‘I tell you it was forced on me!’ Rensley exploded.

‘Forced be damned! You were pledged to meet Merriot, and Fanshawe must have known it.’

Mr Rensley raised himself on his sound elbow. ‘What, you’d have me swallow a blow in the face, would you? Ay, I make no doubt you’d take it!’

‘Oh, I’ll leave you!’ Markham said, and swung round on his heel.

‘It’s little enough help you’ve ever been to me, sure!’ sneered Rensley. ‘Your Munich gaming-houses!’

‘It’s little help you’ll have from me in the future!’ Mr Markham cried, and left his friend fuming.

He was let out of the house by a solemn lackey, who had spent the morning discussing his master’s freak below-stairs. He walked down the steps, and became aware of a shabby gentleman, hesitating by the railings. He looked with casual interest, wondering what this individual wanted.

The shabby gentleman accosted him. ‘Your pardon, sir, but does my Lord Barham live here?’

Mr Markham gave a short laugh. ‘There’s certainly a man within calls himself Lord Barham,’ he said.

The shabby gentleman looked a little puzzled. ‘It’s—it’s a small man, with a hook nose,’ he ventured. ‘That’s the man I want to see, sir.’

Mr Markham paused, and his eyes took in the stranger more thoroughly. There was an air of mystery about the man, and some slight savour of nervousness. If this was one of my lord’s late associates it was quite possible that something might be gathered from him of no little importance. ‘I’m a friend of Lord Barham,’ said Markham, in a tone meant to inspire confidence. ‘Do me the favour of stepping up to my rooms with me.’

The stranger seemed to shrink into himself; hurriedly he declined the honour: he desired to see my lord, and none other.

Mr Markham’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused. He took the stranger by the elbow, and abandoning the conciliatory tone, said unpleasantly:—‘Ay, you’re in a mighty hurry to be off, aren’t you? Now what should the likes of you have to say to Lord Barham that no one else may hear?’

The stranger tried to break away. ‘Nothing, sir, I assure you! A matter for my lord’s private ear! I beg you won’t detain me.’

‘Ay, but I’ve a mind to know something more of you, my friend,’ said Mr Markham, retaining his hold. ‘You look to me as though you have information to sell. I know something of this Barham, you see.’

The stranger disclaimed quickly, shooting a swift, scared glance up and down the road. Markham’s suspicions grew, and he drew a bow at a venture. ‘I believe you’re some damned Jacobite, skulking in hiding,’ he said.

There was the faintest start, and a fresh movement to be free. Markham’s grip tightened on the arm he held, and he began to walk down the square, taking the stranger with him. The stranger protested in a high voice of alarm; his vehement oaths that he was no Jacobite left Mr Markham unmoved. Markham said:—‘If you’ve information for sale about Lord Barham you can go free for aught I care. If not—why, we’ll see what the law will get out of you!’

The protestations died away; the stranger went sullenly beside Mr Markham until the house where Markham lodged was reached. He was ushered into his host’s rooms, and told to sit down. On either side of the table they sat, the stranger holding his battered hat between his hands, and stealing furtive glances towards the door.

‘Now then, fellow, I’m a friend of Lord Barham’s, and I’ll hear what you have to say.’

‘If you’re a friend of his, you’d best let me see him,’ the other said sulkily. ‘His lordship won’t desire to have me given up. I can tell too much.’

‘Why, what should Barham care for aught you could say?’

‘Ask him!’ the man replied. ‘I’m ready to sell his lordship what I hold, but if you, who say you’re a friend of his, are fool enough to give me up, I’ll disclose all I know, and then where will his fine lordship be?’

‘You’ll give up what you hold to me, my man.’

‘If you’re a friend of his,’ the stranger insisted, ‘you dare not hand me over to the law. Take me to Lord Barham.’

‘You mistake, fellow,’ said Markham cruelly. ‘I am a friend of the other Lord Barham.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking of. The man I mean is a little man, with bright eyes, and a soft-spoken manner. I saw him riding in a fine coach the other day, and I was told it was Lord Barham.’

In a few words Mr Markham let him know the true state of affairs. He watched closely the effect, and saw again the furtive look around for a means of escape.

‘So now, fellow, you perceive into what trap you have fallen. Faith you’re a bad plotter! I make no doubt your Barham would pay well for the information you hold, because he dare not give you up. But make you no doubt that you’ll get little enough from me. I’ve naught to fear from handing you over to the law. You deserve to hang, but I’m kind. If your information’s worth something I’ll give you twenty guineas to help you out of the country. If you’re stubborn—why, we’ll see what the law-officers have to say to you.’

The stranger attempted to bluster and disclaim, but it was plain he had some fears. Mr Markham bore with this awhile, but arose at last with a significant word of calling to his servant. Bluster turned to a whine; there was produced at last a folded letter from an inner pocket upon which Mr Markham pounced with some eagerness.

He read some half a dozen finely inscribed lines addressed to no less a person than my Lord George Murray, concerning certain hopes of drawing in two gentlemen to the Rebellion whose names were only indicated by an initial; and came at last to the signature. The name of Colney conveyed nothing to Mr Markham, but the stranger said sulkily:—‘That’s the name of the man I saw out driving. He who calls himself my Lord Barham.’

‘How came you by this letter?’

The stranger said evasively that it had fallen into his hands. He saw no reason to tell Mr Markham that he had stolen it along with some others of little or no importance, in the vague belief that they might be of use to him. Fortunately, Mr Markham’s interest in the manner of the letter’s acquisition was but fleeting, and he inquired no further, but sat frowning down at that elegant signature.

‘Can you prove this Colney to be indeed the man you say he is?’

The stranger answered in some alarm that of a certainty he could prove nothing, since he could not, for obvious reasons, come into the open. Mr Markham’s dissatisfaction grew. ‘I don’t see what use this is. I believe I’d better give you up.’

It was pointed out to him, with some haste, that an inquiry set on foot regarding the movements of Mr Colney must inevitably lead to the present claimant of the Barham title. Mr Markham sat pondering it, and began to see his way. The letter was hidden away in a pocket and twenty guineas changed hands. Mr Markham thought it would be as well for the stranger to leave the country: he preferred that no one save himself should know of this letter. There was some expostulation and some tearful pleading, but upon fresh mention of the law-officers the stranger took a hurried leave of his host, and left him to his reflections.

These were weighty enough. It was Mr Markham’s first impulse to go with the document to Rensley, who had said he would give as much as ten thousand pounds to the man who should expose his cousin. But Rensley was a mean dog: there could be no trusting him. Rensley had, moreover, used some very cutting expressions to his friend lately; there had been a falling out, and it would not be displeasing to Mr Markham to do his friend Rensley an ill turn.

His thoughts came round to another market for his document. Ecod, he had naught against the pseudo-Lord Barham, and his lordship seemed to be an open-handed old gentleman. Of a surety it would not do to act precipitately in this matter, but the alternative of taking his document to Barham must be fully considered. Rensley would be bound to pay well for this precious paper, but would not my lord be bound to pay better? This led to a fresh thought: once sold to Rensley, there was an end to the business, so far as Mr Markham was concerned. But he could dimly perceive years ahead if he made Barham his man. Barham would buy the paper, true, but even that would not make Barham feel quite safe. He could surely be further bled on fear of disclosure. True there could be nothing proved without written evidence, but Mr Markham could imagine that even a verbal accusation with the paper safely destroyed would prove mighty uncomfortable for my lord. Mr Markham believed that he might easily hold my lord under his thumb for a good many years to come. He licked his lips at this thought, but decided that the thing must be earnestly weighed. He would sleep on it.