The Black Moth

him and beckoned him to their sides. Escaping presently from them, he turned into Curzon Street, and from thence down Half Moon Street, where he literally fell into the arms of Tom Wilding, who had much to say on the subject of March’s last bet with Edgecumbe. His Grace affected interest, politely declined Wilding’s proffered escort, and hurried down into Piccadilly, walking eastwards towards St. James’s Square, where was the Andover town house. He was fated to be again detained, for as he walked along Arlington Street, Mr. Walpole was on the point of descending the steps of No. 5. He also had much to say to his Grace. He had no idea that Belmanoir had returned from Paris. A week ago he had arrived? Well, he, Walpole, had been out of town all the week⁠—at Twickenham. He hoped Bel. would honour him with his company at the small card-party he was giving there on Thursday. George was coming, and Dick Edgecumbe; he had asked March and Gilly Williams, but the Lord knew whether both would be induced to appear! Bel. had heard of Gilly’s absurd jealousy? Wilding was promised, and Markham; several other answers he was awaiting.

Andover accepted gracefully and parted from Mr. Walpole. He made the rest of his journey in peace, and on arriving at his house, went straight to the library, where sat a sleek, eminently respectable-looking individual, dressed like a groom. He stood up as his Grace entered, and bowed.

Belmanoir nodded shortly and sat down at his desk.

“I have work for you, Harper.”

“Yes, sir⁠—your Grace, I should say.”

“Do you know Sussex?”

“Well, your Grace, I don’t know as how⁠—”

“Do you know Sussex?”

“No, your Grace⁠—er⁠—yes, your Grace! I should say, not well, your Grace!”

“Have you heard of a place called Littledean?”

“No, s⁠—your Grace.”

“Midhurst?”

“Oh, yes, your Grace.”

“Good. Littledean is seven miles west of it. You will find that out⁠—also an inn called, I think, ‘The Pointing Finger.’ There you will lodge.”

“Yes, your Grace, certainly.”

“At a very little distance from there is a house⁠—Horton House, where lives a certain Mr. Beauleigh, with his sister and daughter. You are to watch the comings and goings of these people with the utmost care. Eventually you will become groom to Mr. Beauleigh.”

“B-but, your Grace!” feebly protested the astonished Harper.

“You will approach their present groom, and you will insinuate that I, Andover, am in need of a second groom. You will tell him that I pay handsomely⁠—treble what Mr. Beauleigh gives him. If I know human nature, he will apply for the post. You then step in. If Mr. Beauleigh asks for some recommendation, you are to refer him to Sir Hugh Grandison, White’s Chocolate House, St. James’s Street. When you are engaged I will send further instructions.”

The man gaped, shut his mouth, and gaped again.

“Do you fully understand me?” asked Belmanoir calmly.

“Er⁠—er⁠—yes, your Grace!”

“Repeat what I have said, then.”

Harper stumbled through it and mopped his brow unhappily.

“Very well. In addition, I pay you twice as much as Mr. Beauleigh gives you, and, at the end, if you serve me well⁠—fifty guineas. Are you satisfied?”

Harper brightened considerably.

“Yes, your Grace! Thank you, sir!”

Tracy laid twenty guineas before him.

“That is for your expenses. Remember this: the sooner the thing is done, the more certain are your fifty guineas. That is all. Have you any questions to ask?”

Harper cudgelled his still dazed brain, and finding none, shook his head.

“No, your Grace.”

“Then you may go.”

The man bowed himself out, clutching his guineas. He was comparatively a newcomer in his Grace’s service, and he was by no means accustomed to the Duke’s lightning method of conducting his affairs. He was not sure that he quite appreciated it. But fifty guineas were fifty guineas.

XXI

Mrs. Fanshawe Lights a Fire and O’Hara Fans the Flame

Richard Carstares very soon availed himself of Mrs. Fanshawe’s permission to call upon her, and duly put in an appearance at No. 16, Mount Street. He found the house very tastefully appointed, the sister elderly and good-natured, and the widow herself an excellent hostess. The first time he called he was not the only visitor; two ladies whom he did not know and a young cousin were already there, and later, a bowing acquaintance, Mr. Standish, also arrived. Seeing that he would have no opportunity to talk with the widow on the subject of his brother, he very soon took his leave, promising to wait upon her again at no very distant date. When, three days later, he again sent in his name and was admitted, he found the lady alone, and was gratified to hear her order the servant to deny her to all other visitors.

He bowed over her hand and hoped she was well.

Mrs. Fanshawe drew him down beside her on the settee.

“I am very well, Mr. Carstares. And you?”

“Also,” he smiled, but his looks belied his words.

She told him so, laughing, and he pleaded a worried week.

“Well, sir, I presume you did not come to talk to me about your health, but about my friend⁠—eh?”

“I assure⁠—”

“Remember, no vapid compliments!” she besought.

“Then, madam, yes. I want to hear about⁠—Ferndale. You see, I⁠—like you⁠—took a great interest in him.”

She sent him a shrewd glance, and nodded.

“Of course. I will tell you all I know, Mr. Carstares, but it is not very much, and maybe you will be disappointed. But I only knew him the short time we were both in Vienna, and⁠—he was not very communicative.”

“Ah!⁠—he did not confide in you, madam?”

“No. If one attempted to draw his confidence, he became a polite iceberg.”

“Nevertheless, madam, please tell me all that you know.”

“It will not take long, I fear. I met him in ’48 at Vienna, in the Prater, where I was walking with my husband, who had come to Vienna for his health. I chanced to let fall my reticule when Sir Anthony was passing us, and he picked it up, speaking the most execrable German.” She smiled a little at the remembrance. “Mr. Fanshawe, who had the greatest dislike for all foreigners,