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 openhanded 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.

XVIII

The Large Gentleman Is Awake

There would be cards at Fanshawe’s house, Prudence guessed; a fair number of young bucks might be counted on to be present; and her frustrated duel with Rensley must be sure of receiving notice.

She chose, at random, a coat of peach satin from her wardrobe, and found a fine waistcoat embroidered in silver to wear with it. Robin came to dredge powder on to her brown locks, and was busy with hot irons for a while. Coaxing a rolling curl into place, Robin said:⁠—“Leave early, and have no private talk with Fanshawe. It’s my belief it’s a quixotic gentleman with no other mind than to step between a callow youth and death. But it’s as well to have a care.”

Prudence agreed to the first part of this speech, but held her peace for the rest. No use in alarming Robin, but she felt there might be more in the large gentleman’s mind than her brother guessed. She waited patiently for Robin to finish tying the black ribbon in her neck, and rose afterwards to be helped into her coat. Her glance strayed to the mirror, and showed satisfaction. Faith, she made a neat young gentleman. Who should think more? She slipped a ring on to her finger, and her snuffbox into one of the great pockets of her coat. Her stockings seemed to her to be rolled too loosely above the knee; she bent to rectify the fault; gave a final pat to the ruffles about her throat, and sallied forth to the waiting chair.

The house in Clarges Street was strangely quiet. As she gave her hat and cloak into the servant’s care she listened for sound of voices, but none came. The lackey went before her to the door of Sir Anthony’s library, flung it wide, and sonorously called her name.

Sir Anthony was standing alone before the fireplace, where a small wood fire burned. There was no one else in the room. He came forward to greet Prudence, took her hand a moment, and asked a jovial question. She answered in kind, and realized with his next words that she was to be his only guest.

“I’ve positively no entertainment to offer you, excepting a hand at picquet after dinner,” smiled Fanshawe. “I feel I invite you under false pretences, but you’ll forgive me.”

“Why, I’m pleased to have it so, sir!” There was not much truth in that, but one must say something of the sort, she supposed. She paused. A word must be said also of his strange behaviour of yesterday, since it concerned her so nearly. There was not a tremor in her voice as she spoke: nothing but a mixture of amusement and some reproof. “I have a quarrel with you, Sir Anthony. You must be aware of it.”

He pulled forward a chair for her, and himself stood leaning with his broad shoulders against the mantelshelf. “Faith, not I,” he answered. “Have I offended you?”

One of her long fingers played with the fob of her snuffbox. She looked up tranquilly into the gentleman’s inscrutable, good-humoured countenance. “Well,

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