“No, no, it comes quite naturally,” my lord interpolated sweetly. “I assume nothing; I am a positive child of nature, my dear sir. But you were saying?”
“Ay, it doesn’t interest you at all, does it?” Mr. Markham achieved a sneer.
My lord was apologetic. “Well, not just at the moment, my dear friend of old days. But presently I feel you will arrive at a climax which will astound me. I am all expectation.”
“It may well appal you, my lord. I have here”—he laid his hand on the breast of his coat significantly—“something that spells ruin for you.”
“What, in your heart?” My lord was puzzled.
“No, sir! In my pocket!” snapped Markham.
“Oh, I see! An inner pocket! A very cunning contrivance, sir: I must have one made for myself. What did you tell me you had in it?”
“I have a certain paper, sir—a letter writ to my Lord George Murray: writ by a man who called himself—Colney!”
“Good Gad, sir!” said my lord placidly. “But you don’t drink! You find my claret insipid, I fear. Let me send for some canary. Or do you prefer ale in the morning? My man shall procure you some on the instant. You have but to say the word.”
“You, sir, are that man!” declared Mr. Markham in a ringing voice.
My lord jumped and blinked. “I am anything in the world you please,” he assured Mr. Markham. “But don’t, I implore you, give me another such start!”
Mr. Markham put a hand to his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. This he spread before my lord’s eyes, keeping it well out of reach.
My lord looked at it and nodded. “Very interesting,” he said.
“Very dangerous, my Lord of Barham!”
“Then I should take care of it,” advised my lord. “I do wish you would drink. I feel you detect something amiss with the claret which has escaped my palate.”
“To hell with the claret! What will you give for this document, my lord? What’s it worth, eh? A man’s life?”
My lord shook his head decidedly. “If you want that for it, take it elsewhere, my dear Markham.”
Markham stowed it safely away. “With your leave, sir, we’ll ha’ done with this foolery. I know you for Colney. I hold a paper that would send you to the gallows-tree. Come out into the open, sir, and be plain with me. I’ve no animosity towards you; I wish you no harm. But you’ll pay well for the letter.”
My lord rose, and made a fine gesture. “I perceive that you would be a friend indeed. I embrace you! We understand one another.”
“As to that,” said Markham, rather bewildered by this sudden effusion, “I am neither your friend nor your foe. But I hold you in the hollow of my hand.”
“You do, my dear Markham, you do! And if I were given the choice of a hand to be held in, I should choose yours. My word for it, sir, my solemn oath!”
“I might have taken this paper to Rensley,” Markham went on, disregarding. “I thought of it; I weighed it well. I decided it was more vital to you to get the paper than Rensley. And I came as you see.”
“A mastermind!” said my lord. “I drink to it.” He did so, with considerable flourish. “You must accept my homage, Mr. Markham. I descry in you a shrewd brain. I venerate it; we were made for each other. Rensley could never have given you what I can give you. My dear friend, I have something which might have been designed expressly for you. But still you don’t drink.”
Mr. Markham tossed off the wine, and set his glass down again. “You’re mighty pleased over it,” he remarked.
“I am, sir. You have divined me correctly. I could embrace you.”
“It is not your embraces I want, my lord.”
My lord smiled wickedly. “But do I not know it! It is Letitia Grayson’s embraces you crave, my dear Markham.”
Mr. Markham choked and swore. “Curse it, what do you know of Letty Grayson?”
“Very little, sir, but I shall hope to know more when she is Mrs. Markham. I drink to that happy day.”
A gloomy look came into Mr. Markham’s face. “You may spare your pains: it’s far off.”
“No, no, my friend, it is close at hand!” said my lord radiantly.
Mr. Markham looked suspicious. “What do you know of it? You are off at a tangent. I’ve come to sell you your own treasonable letter, not to talk of Letty Grayson.”
My lord sat down again. “My friend, I will show you a sure road to Miss Letty,” he promised.
“I wish there was such a road,” Markham said. The truth was Miss Grayson’s dimpled loveliness haunted him almost as much as did Miss Grayson’s golden fortune.
“There is,” said my lord. “But it is known only to me. Let us be plain—you did wish me to be plain with you, did you not? Well, my dear Markham, at first I thought, no: I will not show my Munich friend the road. But then, sir, then I fell in love with your wit. You remember that I was impelled to compliment you. You seem to realize that I might not be quite all I pretend to be. I admire that perspicacity. Then you assured me that you had no animosity towards me. I was struck by this, sir: I was amazed. I saw in you a friend: I changed my mind. I will put into your hands a certain means of winning Letitia Grayson. You might be away to Gretna in a week, if you chose.”
“H’m!” said Mr. Markham sceptically. “That’s to play the same game twice. With Fanshawe on my heels, as he was before. No, I thank you.”
“I myself will keep Fanshawe away,” announced my lord. “You will stop only to change horses; you arrive at Gretna—”
“And Letty refuses to marry me. Very pretty.”
“You have it quite wrong,” said my lord. “She goes willingly. You
