“I know, I know, but I could not help it, papa!”
“No, it has been my fault,” he said sadly. “And but for this strange masked man you would be in a bad case now. We must brave it out. But have you no notion who your preserver may be? If he knows you, you must surely know him!”
“I do not, papa. He is not like any man of our acquaintance.” A blush flooded her cheeks. “Papa …”
He observed her heightened colour. “Well, child?”
She looked frankly up at him. “I do not know his name, papa, nor anything about him, but I am going to marry him. He said—he said that next time he came it would be for me.”
Sir Humphrey did not know what reply to make. At last he said: “That is for the tomorrow, Letitia. We must know something more of him. But certainly, provided his birth be respectable, he deserves to win you. I look forward to the day when I may have the honour of taking his hand.”
Whereupon Miss Letty promptly cast herself into his arms, and burst into tears.
XXV
Mystery of the Masked Man
There could be no evading a lively scandal; Sir Humphrey had foreseen it; Robin had a dread of it. By noon next day Society spoke of nothing but the sudden and horrid death of Gregory Markham, and the frustrated elopement of the pretty heiress. The news was all over the town; the Merriots’ share in the night’s work was known with the rest, for Mr. Markham’s coachman naturally told it all to Mr. Markham’s valet, who, in his turn, repeated it to Mr. Devereux’s man. The ball once started rolled swiftly through London, and at length reached the ears of Sir Anthony Fanshawe. He had it from Mr. Belfort at White’s club, and Mr. Belfort was able to give him better information than most, for he had made a point of calling in Arlington Street as soon as he heard the strange story. Mr. Belfort, never having been at all in sympathy with Markham, saw the happenings as a rollicking adventure, and was about to make a ribald comment on Miss Letty’s share in it, when he remembered Sir Anthony’s close friendship with the Graysons. He coughed, glared at Devereux, standing by, and relapsed into solemn silence.
“Very queer affair,” said Devereux, shaking his head. “Oh monstrous, Fanshawe! I did hear that there’s some doubt of the masked man being a highwayman. What do you say to a rival, hey?” He looked very knowing, and gave a prim smile. “Oh, quite shocking, my dear Fanshawe.”
Sir Anthony took snuff with a meditative air. “Who says they were not highwaymen?” he asked.
“ ’Pon my soul, I cannot quite recollect where I heard it first,” said Mr. Devereux. “It might have been from Kestrel that I had it.”
“As to that,” Mr. Belfort interposed, “I’ve seen Peter Merriot today, and he says Miss Grayson swore they were highwaymen. Her pearls were taken, y’know.”
“All the same, Bel, you must remember the duel! You must remember that. I never heard of a common robber offering to fight.”
Mr. Belfort looked portentous. “Now I’ve a notion of my own as to it,” he confided. “What do you say to its being one of these escaped Jacobites, taken to the High Toby?”
Mr. Devereux seemed greatly struck by this. “Ay, there might well be something in that, Bel. That’s an idea, you know. ’Pon my soul, that’s a devilish clever notion! What do you say to it, Tony?”
Sir Anthony would not volunteer an opinion. There might or there might not be some truth in it. He strolled away in a few minutes, and was very soon on his way to Arlington Street. Sir Anthony had a notion in his own head, but it was not for Mr. Belfort’s delectation.
The lackey who admitted him into the house believed that my lady had gone out. Sir Anthony asked for Mr. Merriot, and was conducted to the smaller withdrawing room.
Miss Merriot was seated in the window, supporting her fair head on one delicate hand. An enchanting profile was presented to the room. There was the straight nose, the beautifully curved lips, and the drooping eyelid. The light curls were unpowdered, and caught up carelessly in a ribbon of Robin’s favourite blue; there was a locket round the white throat, and a fan held in one hand. A gown of blue silk billowed about the lovely lady; the sleeves ended at the elbow in a fall of heavy lace. She did not look as though she could kill a man in a duel.
Mr. Merriot stood in a truly masculine attitude, with a foot on the window seat, and an elbow resting on that bent knee. It seemed he had been riding, as was his wont each morning, for he wore shining top-boots, and buff small-clothes. A coat of claret-coloured cloth set off his trim figure; his hand played negligently with the lash of his long whip.
Sir Anthony, pausing in the doorway, had a moment’s opportunity to admire a pretty picture. Then Robin looked round, and pulled a face. “Lord, Prue! The mountain.”
Prudence turned, and brought her foot down to the floor. “Give you good day, sir,” she said.
Robin became impish. “Faith, the world’s full of curiosity!” he remarked. “Even the phlegmatic mammoth must needs come to visit us today.”
Prudence held up a finger. “Treat the gentleman with respect, child. I perceive he frowns on you.”
Robin sighed. “Alack, I could never succeed in captivating the mammoth,” he mourned. “I doubt I’m too flighty for a sober man’s taste.”
Sir Anthony put down his hat, and smiled placidly. “Quite right, Robin.” He looked keenly under heavy eyelids. “So you chanced to come upon Letty in this fresh trouble last night?”
“A most fortunate occurrence,” nodded Robin. “We were on our way back from Barnet.”
“Were you
