“But up all night—no, blister me, that’s too much. Get to bed, you madman!”
“What, to, save your stake for you? Be damned if I do! My coach calls for me at five. Does the bet stand? You’ll break my bank before five—your colt to my mare.”
“I’ll do it!” Cholmondley said, slapping the table with his open hand. “Got an hour, ha’n’t I? Tune enough. Where’s the betting-book?”
The bet was duly entered. The waiter was about to remove the book when the Marquis drawled: “I’ll lay you a further five hundred I reach Newmarket under the given time, Cholmondley—play or pay.”
“Done!” said Cholmondley promptly. “Now I’m for you, my boy. Playing two hundred!”
“Two hundred it is,” the Marquis agreed, and put up his eyeglass to watch the throw of the dice.
Cholmondley called sixes. Lord Rupert looked solemnly at the dice as they fell on the table. “Deuce ace,” he declared. “Bank can’t win for ever, eh, Vidal?”
Mr. Quarles, who had been tapping an impatient foot, burst out: “I’d say my Lord Vidal can’t lose!”
The eyeglass dangled on its black ribbon from between my lord’s fingers. “Would you?” said the Marquis gently, and as though he waited for more.
“Oh, stand out, Quarles, if you can’t stay the course!” said Cholmondley impatiently.
It was evident that Mr. Quarles had reached the quarrelsome stage. “I’ll stay the course well enough, sir, but the luck’s too damned uneven for my taste.”
Mr. Fox took a mirror from his capacious pocket, and studied his reflection in it. With considerable care he straightened his toupet, and flicked a speck of snuff from the lapel of his coat. “Dominic,” he said wearily.
The Marquis shot him a look.
“Dominic, how did this place grow to be so devilish vulgar?”
“Hush, Charles, hush!” said the Marquis. “You interrupt my dear friend. He is about to explain himself.”
The bluff man, who had as yet taken no part in the swiftly brewing quarrel, leaned over Mr. Bowling’s vacant chair, and plucked at Quarles’s sleeve. “Hold your peace, man. You’re out of tune. Don’t play if you’re shy of the luck, but for God’s sake let’s have an end to this bickering.”
“I’ll play,” Mr. Quarles said obstinately. “But I say it’s tune another man took the bank!”
“Lord, man, there’s a bet on! The bank stays with Vidal.”
“Dominic,” said Mr. Fox plaintively. “Dominic, my dear fellow, I shall have to give up this place, positively I shall have to give it up now the herd has discovered it.”
My lord was still watching Quarles. “Patience, Charles, Mr. Quarles don’t like to see the bank win. You should sympathize.”
Quarles started up. “I don’t like the way this game has gone, my lord,” he said loudly, “and if you won’t give up the bank, I say give us fresh dice!”
His words brought about a sudden uneasy silence. Cholmondley tried to fill the breach, saying quickly: “Lord, you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying, Quarles. Let’s get on with the game.”
“I think not.” The voice came from the end of the table. The Marquis was leaning forward, his wineglass still to his hand. “So you don’t like the dice, eh?”
“No, I don’t like them, curse you!” Quarles shouted. “And I don’t like your high-handed ways, my lord. They won’t serve. I’ve sat three nights and seen you win—”
He got no further; the Marquis was up and had dashed the contents of his glass full in Quarles’s face. He was smiling now and his eyes blazed. “And that’s a waste of good wine,” he said, and turned and said something to the waiter at his elbow. Mr. Quarles, with the burgundy dripping down his front, sprang up and made a clumsy lunge at him. Cholmondley and Captain Wraxall, the bluff gentleman, forced him back.
“Damn it, you asked for that!” Cholmondley swore. “Take it back, you fool! We all know you’re drunk.”
The Marquis had resumed his seat. The waiter looked frightened, and whispered to him. My lord turned on him with something like a snarl, and the man fled.
Lord Rupert got up rather unsteadily. “Fiend seize it, the champagne’s got into my head!” he said. But the sudden interlude seemed to have jerked him back to sobriety. “There’s been enough of this,” he said authoritatively. “You be damned for a fool, Vidal. Can’t you see the fellow’s drunk?”
Lord Vidal laughed. “I’m drunk myself, Rupert, but I can tell when a man calls me cheat.”
“Good God, my lord, you’ll never care for what’s said after the third bottle!” cried Captain Wraxall.
Lord Cholmondley gave Mr. Quarles’s arm a shake. “Take it back, man; you’re out of your senses.”
Mr. Quarles wrenched himself free. “You’ll meet me for this, my lord!” he roared.
“Be sure I will,” said the Marquis. “Well settle it now, my buck.”
Rupert took up the dice. “Break ’em,” he said briefly. “Where’s that rogue Timothy? I want a hammer.”
Sir Horace Tremlett, he of the mincing speech, protested. “I vow it’s not necessary, my lard. We know my Lard Vidal, I believe. Break the dice? ’Pon my soul, sir, it’s to insult his lardship.”
“To hell with that!” said Rupert. “I’m breaking ’em, see? If they’re true, Quarles apologizes. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Ay, that’s the best,” Captain Wraxall agreed.
Mr. Quarles was wiping his face. “I say my lord will meet me! By God, I’ll not take a glass of wine in the face and say thank you for it!”
Cholmondley spoke in Lord Rupert’s ear. “It’s gone too far now. Rot that nephew of yours! What’s to do?”
“Break the dice,” Rupert said obstinately. “Can’t have it said an Alastair plays crooked.”
“Oh, you’re as drunk as Vidal! Who’s to say so? Quarles will take it back when he’s sober if you can stop Vidal forcing it on now.”
The waiter had come back into the room carrying a flat case. With a scared look at the Marquis he laid this on the table. Vidal opened it, and it was to be seen that a brace of pistols lay within. “Take your choice,” he said.
Rupert stared. “What’s this? Can’t fight here, Dominic. Arrange it for you out at Barn Elms, nine o’clock.”
“By nine o’clock I shall be in Newmarket,” said the Marquis. “I’ll settle my score before I leave.”
Mr. Fox roused himself. He inspected the pistols through his eyeglass, and looked inquiringly at Vidal. “Where did they come from?” he said. “Don’t carry pistols to gaming houses myself.”
“They come out of my coach,” replied Vidal. He looked at the clock. “It waits. Choose, you!”
“I’m for you!” Mr. Quarles declared. He rolled an eye at Captain Wraxall. “Sir, will you act for me?”
“Act for you?” exploded the Captain. “I’ll have nothing to do with the business. My lord, you’re in no fit case to fight, and I recommend you to go home and let your seconds arrange the matter more seemly,”
Vidal laughed. “Not fit? By God, that’s rich, Wraxall. You don’t know me very well, do you?”
“I am happy to say I do not, sir!” said the Captain stiffly.
“Watch then!” My lord drew a small gold-mounted pistol from his pocket. He levelled it, still lounging in his chair, and fired before any could stop him. There was a loud report, and the smash of glass as the bullet shattered the big mirror at the end of the room.
“What in hell’s name—?” began Wraxall furiously, and broke off, staring in the direction of my lord’s pointing finger. One of a cluster of three candles was no longer burning. The voice of Mr. Comyn said calmly: “Quite remarkable shooting—under the circumstances.”
Lord Rupert, forgetting larger issues, called out: “Outed it, begad, and not touched the wax! Good lad!”
The explosion brought those still remaining in the other rooms hurrying to the scene. Vidal paid no heed. “Don’t know me very well, do you?” he repeated, and laughed again.
Cholmondley, casting a glance of rebuke at Rupert, admonished Mr. Quarles once more. “Go home and sleep on it, Quarles. If you want to fight, fight sober. You’re no match for Vidal else.”
A stout individual dressed in discreet black pushed his way through the knot of men
Vidal raised his brows. “You interrupt, Timothy. I fired that shot.”
The stout man looked aghast. “My lord, my lord, what wild work is this? You’ll ruin me, my lord!” He saw the case containing the pistols and made a pounce for them. My lord’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. Timothy met his eyes for a moment, and said distressfully: “My lord, I beg of you—my lord, don’t do it here!”
He was thrust back. “Damn you, stop whining!” Vidal sprang up, overturning his chair. “Am I to sit here till
