There entered a few minutes later Rensley, in company with his friend Mr. Markham. Mr. Markham looked heated; Mr. Rensley was scowling. The truth was he had been somewhat testy with his satellite, and there had been a slight altercation. Mr. Rensley refused curtly an invitation to join a faro party, on the score of his being promised to Markham. The pair sat down to picquet at a table close to Mr. Belfort’s.
It fell to Mr. Markham to deal, while Rensley looked sourly round the room. His glance fell upon my Lord Barham, likewise engaged on picquet. He uttered a strong expletive beneath his breath, and glared angrily. My lord, catching sight of him, waved a white hand, which salutation Mr. Rensley did not return. “Damn the fellow, he’s no more my cousin than you are!” he said, addressing Mr. Markham.
Mr. Markham was still feeling ruffled. Rensley was always quick of temper, and one bore outbursts of anger from a rich viscount. But if Rensley was going to lose his wealth and his title his friend Markham had no intention of bearing his ill-humour with complacency. “Gad, man, let be!” he said shortly. “You’ve said little else for the past hour. Do you take all five cards?”
Rensley sorted his hand rather sullenly, and took time over his discard. A well-known voice smote Mr. Markham’s ears: “Don’t despair, Devereux! She may die of an apoplexy yet!”
Mr. Markham looked sharply round, and found that Mr. Merriot was seated close at hand. He bowed politely, but his brow was black as he faced Rensley again.
Rensley saw, and smiled disagreeably. “Ay, the young sprig from the country’s here, Gregory. Ecod, I believe the lad’s worsted you in some encounter! Eh! man? Now what did he do to you, I wonder?”
“That puppy!” Mr. Markham flushed. “I could break him across my knee!”
“Well, why don’t you?” asked Rensley. “You talk a deal, the Lord knows!”
Markham laid down his cards. “Not to you for much longer, sir, I warn you!” he said.
“Oh, play to my lead, man, play to my lead! Gad, but you’ll admit you’d try the patience of a saint with your prating of having seen that—that impostor somewhere, and not knowing where! Why can’t you think?”
My Lord Barham rose from his table across the room, and stood for a moment talking to March. One or two men gathered around them, after a moment a dice-box was produced, and March cast the dice on the table. Heads were bent over it; there was a laugh, and a murmur of speech, and my Lord Barham swept up the dice.
Mr. Markham chanced that moment to look up. He saw my lord shake back his ruffles, and with eyes growing gradually wider he saw him throw the dice with a curious flick of the wrist.
Mr. Markham was in the act of dealing, but his hand with three cards in it stayed poised in midair, and he continued to stare across at my lord, his jaw slightly dropped.
“What’s to do now?” demanded Rensley. “Gad, have you remembered,” he added eagerly.
“That man—why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.”
It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. “So few people nowadays understand the art!” he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. “My cousin! I salute you!” he said.
Mr. Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. “Damn it, don’t call me cousin!” he said loudly. “You’re no more than a cursed gamester!”
There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. “Oh!” he said. “Who told you that?”
Markham put down the pack of cards. “I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,” he said.
My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. “Then that must have been where I met you!” he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. “I thought your face familiar from the first.”
At the lansquenet table Sir Anthony gave a low laugh. “Faith, I begin to have a liking for the old gentleman!” he said.
“You admit it, do you?” Mr. Rensley felt his words fall lamely upon expectant ears.
“Admit what?” said my lord, puzzled.
“Why—damme, that you’ve kept a common gaming-house!”
My lord’s hand was raised. “No!” he said emphatically, and a sigh went round the room. His next words dispelled relief. “Never in all my life have I kept anything that was common! You insult me by the suggestion.”
There was a low ripple of laughter. People were gathering about that corner of the room, eager to hear what might be the issue.
“No use to play with words, fellow. That won’t serve,” Rensley cried angrily. “Have you kept a gaming-house?”
The old gentleman took snuff. “I have kept at least a dozen, my dear Rensley,” he said, with perfect composure. He looked again towards Mr. Markham. “I am not entirely satisfied,” he mused. “Are you sure you never had lessons in fencing from me, sir?”
There was a gasp. All play was at an end in the card-room. My Lord March burst out laughing. “Gad, Barham, have you been a fencing-master, too?” he exclaimed.
The old gentleman shut his gold snuffbox with a snap. “My dear March,” he
