'If you want to come out of this, you’d best stop ranting, and think. Now, then—they weren’t lying, you believe. So they were mistaken. How? That’s the thing—what was there in your play—the way you staked—that made ’em think you were diddling them?' I offered him a cheroot, and struck a match. 'Now, settle down, and think that over.'
He puffed at the weed in silence, made to speak, thought better of it, and then shrugged helplessly.
'How can I tell what they think they saw? Minds like theirs … stupid women and scatterbrains like young Wilson—'
'That won’t answer. See here—from what I’ve learned, they claim that on two or three occasions you had a ?5 stake in front of you, and then hey, presto ! it was ?15—after the hand had been declared. Now, how could that be? Think, man—unless they were seeing things, you must have added another two red chips to the one already there. Did you? Could you? No, don’t start bellowing—think! If you weren’t cheating—how came those extra chips to be there?'
He stood nursing his brow, and turned to me a face that was haggard with frustration. 'I don’t know, Flashman. It can’t have been so … I swear I never added to my stake after the …' And suddenly he stopped, and his eyes and mouth opened wide, and he gave a choking gasp. 'Oh, my God! Of course! The coup de trois! That’s it, Flashman! The coup de trois!' And he let out a great wailing noise which I took to be relief. 'The coup de trois!'
'What the hell’s the coup de trois?'
'My system!' His eyes were blazing. 'Why didn’t I think of it at once! I was tripling up—don’t you see? Look here!' He lugged a handful of coins from his pocket, spilling ’em all over the shop, and planked one on the table. 'There—that’s my ?5 stake. I win—and am paid a fiver from the bank …' He clapped down a second coin. 'I let ’em lie, and add another fiver …' Down went a third coin '… and that’s my stake for the next hand—?15! It’s how I always play! Stake a fiver, win another, add a third! The coup de trois!' He was laughing in sheer triumph. 'Why, it’s as old as the hills! Every punter knows it—but not those green monkeys, Wilson and Levett! They see a fiver staked, look away, look back again after the coup’s been declared and the bank has paid out—and see three fivers —my original stake, my winning, and the third which I’ve added for the next coup, perfectly properly!' He let out a huge gasp of relief and subsided into a chair. 'And because they’re ignorant novices, brought up on old maid and halma, they think it’s foul play!'
'The only thing is,' says I, 'that they’re sure you added the extra chips after the coup was declared, but before the bank paid out—and that you accepted payment of ?15.'
'Then they’re wrong, that’s all! It’s a question of … of timing, can’t you see?'—
'They say that on one coup you jockeyed your stake and demanded an extra tenner from the bank-'
'Stuff and nonsense!'
'—and that once you flicked a chip over the line with a pencil—'
'That is a lie!' He was on his feet again, white with anger. 'Dammit, man, can’t you see sense? Don’t you see what has happened? Some young fool sees my coup de trois, thinks it’s a fraud, tells the other young fools, and because they’re as dense as he is—aye, and as eager to believe the worst—they see all manner of things that ain’t there! Flicking chips with pencils—bah!' In his excitement he took me by the arm. 'Don’t you see, Flashman?'
In fact, I did, and was feeling much let down. For what he said made some sort of sense … perhaps. Half- baked lads like Levett and Wilson, knowing nothing of such systems as the coup de trois employed by seasoned gamesters like Cumming, might well misinterpret his actions. It was, as he said, a question of timing, and in an ill- regulated drawing-room game, with no croupier on the first night, and the bank paying out any old how, it was possible that they might have thought Cumming was still to be paid when in fact he’d already got his winnings and was letting ’em lie, with an additional fiver, for the next coup. Now, if the thing were explained to them, they’d surely be bound to give him the benefit of the doubt—for Bertie would leap at the explanation as a lifeline, and for decency’s sake they’d have to admit that they might have been mistaken.
If there had been a cat handy I’d have kicked it. What had promised to be a splendid scandal looked like fizzling out like the dampest of squibs, and this damned baronet would walk away without a blot on his escutcheon … or so it seemed to me just then. From the first, you see, I’d feared that there might be a simple explanation, and here was a plausible one, rot it. It was all most damnably deflating—and worse because I’d guided him to his bloody loophole of escape.
'Don’t you see?' cries he again, impatiently. 'Heavens, it’s as plain as daylight now! You must see that! It’s obvious to anyone above a half-wit—even a muttonhead like Williams can’t fail to see it! Am I right?'
I put on my judicial face and said that he probably was. 'Well, thank God for that!' cries he sarcastically, and if anything had been needed to convince me he was telling the truth, it was his sneering tone. Not a hint of doubt that his explanation mightn’t wash, no palpitating hope of its acceptance—only cold fury that he, the soul of honour, had been disgracefully traduced, and that his peers had believed it. Two minutes since he’d been in an agony of despair, but now Sir William Gordon-Cumming, Bart, was back in the saddle, bursting with injured self- righteousness and the arrogant certainty of his kind. And, you’ll note, not a whisper of gratitude to your correspondent.
'The Prince must be told at once! He’s a man of sense—unlike those clowns Coventry and Williams. I don’t doubt they persuaded him against his will, but when I put it to him he’ll see the right of it.' He was at his dressing- table, flourishing his silver-backed brushes, improving his parting, with a dab or two at the ends of his pathetic Guardee moustache, and shooting his cuffs, while I marvelled at the human capacity for self-delusion. He was full of exultant confidence now, and it never crossed his shallow mind that others might be less ready to take his view of the matter. I’ve said his explanation was plausible, but it wasn’t near as cast-iron as he thought. Much would depend on how it was presented … and how ready they were to believe it.
'It may be a lesson to them against jumping to conclusions! And on such flimsy evidence—the babbling of those whippersnappers! And my character, my good name, my record of honourable service, were to count for nothing against their damned gossip, the confounded little spies!' He was striding for the door, in full raging fettle, when he suddenly wheeled about. 'No, by heavens, I’ll not do it!' He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. 'Why should I?'
'Why shouldn’t you do what?' was all I could say, for his anger had dropped from him like a shed cloak, and he was smiling grimly as he came slowly back to me.
'Why should I humble myself with explanations? I’m the injured party, am I not? I’m the one who has suffered this … this intolerable affront! I have been insulted in the grossest fashion on the word of a pack of mannerless brats, and two elderly fools who, I have no doubt, persuaded His Royal Highness against his better judgment and honourable instincts.' Drunk with vindictive justification he might be, he wasn’t ass enough to impugn Saintly Bertie. He gave a barking laugh. 'Lord, Flashman, in our fathers' day I’d have been justified in blowing their imbecile heads off on Calais sands! Am I to crawl to them and say `Please, sir, I can prove your informants—ha, informers, I should say!—have been utterly in the wrong, and will you kindly tell ’em so, and condescend to forgive me for having conducted myself like a man of honour?' Is that what I’m supposed to do?'
Talk about women scorned; their fury ain’t in it with a Scotch baronet’s wounded self-esteem. Had I ever, I wondered, encountered such an immortally conceited ass with a truer touch for self-destruction? George Custer came to mind. Aye, put him and Gordon-Cumming on the edge of a precipice and I’d not care to bet which would tumble first into the void, bellowing his grievance.
'What,' says I, keeping my countenance with proper gravity, 'do you propose to do?'
'Not a damned thing! You—' stabbing me on the chest '—since you’ve thrust your spoon into the dixie, can do it for me! You can be my messenger, Flashman, and have the satisfaction of showing them what asses they’ve made of themselves! You’ve got the gift o' the gab, don’t we know it?' says he, with a curl of his voice if not of his lip. 'You can explain about the coup de trois and the rest of it—because I’m damned if I will! It’s not for me to make a plea to them—let ’em come to me! I’ll accept their apology—Coventry and Williams, I mean, and those three guttersnipes! Not the ladies, of course—and certainly not His Royal Highness, who has been most disgracefully imposed on, I’m sure of that. Yes,' says he, head up and shoulders square, with exultation in his eye, 'that’s the way to do it! So off you go, old fellow, and don’t spare ’em!' Seeing me stand thoughtful, he frowned impatiently. 'Well—will you?'
Would I not? I’ve told you my score against Gordon-Cumming—a natural detestation of his supercilious vanity, his unconcealed dislike of me, above all the suspicion that he’d ploughed with my heifer, and now, if you please, the arrogant bastard was appointing me his message-boy. Throw into the scale his overweening certainty
