“Let us say,” amended the Beau, “that I desire you to convey a warning to the person most nearly concerned. You must know that I am aware—have been aware from the outset—that you are concealing—a certain person in this house. I do not need to mention names, I am sure. Now, I wish this person no harm; in the past I think I may say that I have been very much his friend, but it will not be in my power to assist him if once his presence in this inn becomes known. And I fear—I very much fear—that it is known. You have already been a trifle discommoded, I collect, by two Runners from Bow Street. They seem, by all accounts, to have been a singularly stupid couple. But you must remember that all the Runners are not so easily—shall we say, duped?” He paused, but Eustacie, contenting herself with gazing at him blankly, said nothing. He smiled slightly, and continued: “You should consider, dear cousin, what would happen if someone who knows this person well were to go to Bow Street and say: ‘I have proof that his man is even now lying in a hidden cellar at the Red Lion at Hand Cross.’”
“You recount to me a history of the most entertaining,” said Eustacie, with painstaking civility. “I expect you would be very glad to know that Ludovic—I name names, me—had gone abroad.”
“Very glad,” replied the Beau sweetly. “I should be much distressed if he brought any more disgrace on the family by ending his career on the scaffold. And that, my dear Eustacie, is what he will do if ever he falls into the hands of the Law.”
“But I find you inexplicable!” said Eustacie. “I thought you at least believed him to be innocent.”
He shrugged. “Certainly, but his unfortunate flight, coupled with the disappearance of the talisman ring which was at the root of all the trouble, will always make it impossible for him to prove his innocence.” He put the tips of his fingers together, and over them surveyed Eustacie. “It is very disagreeable to be a hunted man, you know. It would be much better to have it given out that one had died—abroad. I am anxious to be of what assistance I can. If I had proof that my cousin Ludovic was no more, I would gladly engage to provide—well, let us say a man who looked like my cousin Ludovic but bore another name—to provide this man, then, with an allowance I believe he would not consider ungenerous.” He stopped and took a pinch of snuff.
“I ask myself,” said Eustacie meditatively, “why you should wish to overwhelm Ludovic with your generosity. It is to me not at all easy to understand.”
“Ah, that is not clever of you, dear cousin,” he replied. “Surely you must perceive the disadvantages of my situation?”
“But yes, very clearly,” said Eustacie, with disconcerting alacrity.
“Precisely,” smiled the Beau. “Of course, were there but the slimmest chance of Ludovic’s being able to prove his innocence, it would be another matter. But there is no such chance, Eustacie, and I should be a very odd sort of a creature if I did not look forward with misgiving to an indefinite number of years spent in waiting beside a vacant throne.”
“A vacant throne?” suddenly said Miss Thane, raising her head from the book she had taken up. “Oh, are you speaking of the murder of the French King? I was never more shocked in my life than when I heard the news of it!”
The Beau paid no heed to her. His eyes still rested on Eustacie; he said pensively: “One may live very comfortably on the Continent, I believe.
“I? But we do not speak of me!”
“Do we not? Well, I shall not pretend that I am not glad to hear you say so,” he answered. He got up from his chair. “You will think over what I have said, will you not? You might even tell Ludovic.”
Eustacie assumed an expression of doubt. “Yes, but perhaps if he did what you suggest you would not give him any money after all,” she said.
“In that case,” replied the Beau calmly, “he would only have to come to life again to deprive me of title, land, and wealth. One might almost say that he would hold me quite in his power.”
“True, yes, that is very true,” nodded Eustacie. “But I do not know—it is not possible for me to say—”
“My dear cousin, I do not wish you to say anything. No doubt you will discuss the matter with Ludovic and inform me later of your decision. I will take my leave of you now.” He turned and bowed to Miss Thane. “Your servant, ma’am. Do not trouble to accompany me to the door, my dear cousin; I know my way. I have been here before, you know.” He broke off and said: “Ah, that reminds me! I believe that upon the occasion of my last visit I lost my quizzing-glass here. I wonder if it has been found?”
“Your quizzing-glass?” repeated Eustacie. “How came you to lose that, pray?”
“The ribbon was a trifle worn,” he explained. “The glass is of sentimental value to me. May I have it, if you please?”
She shook her head. “You are mistaken. It is certainly not here.”
He sighed. “No? Tax your memory again, cousin. It would be wiser to remember, I think.”
“It is impossible. I do not know where your glass may be,” said Eustacie, with perfect truth.
Miss Thane, quite unable to resist the temptation of taking part in this scene, said: “A quizzing-glass? Oh yes, I know!”
“Indeed, ma’am?” The Beau turned rather quickly. “Enlighten me, I beg of you!”
Miss Thane nodded at Eustacie. “Do you not remember, my love, how Nye found one half hidden beneath a chair only yesterday? Oh no, I believe you were not by at the time! He laid it on the mantelshelf in the coffee-room. I will fetch it for you directly.”
“Do not put yourself to the trouble, ma’am,” said the Beau, breathing a little faster. “I am quite in your debt, and will recover the glass upon my way out.”
“Oh, but it is not the least trouble in the world!” declared Miss Thane, rising, and going to the door. “I can place my hand upon it in a trice!”
“You are too good.” He bowed, and followed her to the coffee-room.
She checked for an instant on the threshold, for the room was not, as she had expected to find it, empty. A powerful-looking man in a blue coat and buckskins was seated on the settle beside the fire, warming his feet and refreshing himself from a mug of ale. He turned his head as Miss Thane came in, and although he did not look at her for more than a couple of seconds, she had an uncomfortable feeling that the look was not quite as casual as it seemed to be. She caught Eustacie’s eye, and found it brimful of warning. Comforting herself with the reflection that even if the stranger were in Beau Lavenham’s pay, there was no fear of either of them finding the quizzing-glass, she tripped forward to the fireplace. “I know just where he put it,” she informed the Beau over her shoulder. “This end it was—no! Well, that is the oddest thing! I could have sworn—Do you reach up your arm, Mr Lavenham: you are taller than I am.”
The Beau, who did not need this encouragement, ran his hand the length of the mantelpiece. “You are mistaken, ma’am,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. “It is not here!”
“But it must be!” she said. “I am positive it was put there. Someone must have moved it!” An idea seemed to strike her. She said: “I wonder, did your valet take it? He was here this morning, you know, and stayed for quite some time. I could not imagine what he was about! Depend upon it, he must have discovered it, and you will find it awaiting you at the Dower House.”
He had turned pale, and said with his eyes fixed on her face: “My valet? You say my valet was in this room today?”
“Yes, indeed he was,” averred Miss Thane unblushingly. “Of course, I never dreamed the glass was what he was looking for, or I would have shown him at once where it was. All’s well that ends well, however. You may be sure he has it safe.”
Eustacie, lost in admiration of Miss Thane’s tactics, watched the smile vanish completely from the Beau’s face. An expression half of doubt, half of dismay took its place; it was plain that while he suspected Miss Thane of prevaricating, he was unable to banish from his mind as impossible the thought that his valet, guessing that the quizzing-glass held a vital secret, might have come to search for it on his own account. She saw his hand open and close, and his lips straighten to a thin, ugly line, and was observing these signs of mental perturbation with critical interest when she became aware of being addressed by the stranger on the settle.
“Very cold day, ma’am,” he remarked, with the unmistakable air of one whose habit it was to enter into chat with anybody who crossed his path.
Eustacie glanced at him with a certain amount of misgiving. She supposed that the landlord of an inn could hardly refuse to allow a customer to drink his ale in the coffee-room if he wished to, but she could not help feeling that Nye might have contrived on this occasion at least to have lured him into the tap-room and to have kept him
