“Are you often up in town this way?” asked Bury, as they walked on. “Land agency seems to be a profession with mitigations.”
“There is some London business thrown in. We have some large milk depots in town that I look after.”
There was just a trace of hurry in the young man’s voice, and Bury surveyed him with a smile.
“No other attractions, eh?”
“Not that I know of. By-the-way, Sir Wilfrid, I never asked you how Dick Mason was getting on?”
“Dick Mason? Is he a friend of yours?”
“Well, we were at Eton and Oxford together.”
“Were you? I never heard him mention your name.”
The young man laughed.
“I don’t mean to suggest he couldn’t live without me. You’ve left him in charge, haven’t you, at Teheran?”
“Yes, I have—worse luck. So you’re deeply interested in Dick Mason?”
“Oh, come—I liked him pretty well.”
“Hm—I don’t much care about him. And I don’t somehow believe you do.”
And Bury, with a smile, slipped a friendly hand within the arm of his companion.
Delafield reddened.
“It’s decent, I suppose, to inquire after an old schoolfellow?”
“Exemplary. But—there are things more amusing to talk about.”
Delafield was silent. Sir Wilfrid’s fair mustaches approached his ear.
“I had my interview with Mademoiselle Julie.”
“So I suppose. I hope you did some good.”
“I doubt it. Jacob, between ourselves, the little Duchess hasn’t been a miracle of wisdom.”
“No—perhaps not,” said the other, unwillingly.
“She realizes, I suppose, that they are connected?”
“Of course. It isn’t very close. Lady Rose’s brother married Evelyn’s aunt, her mother’s sister.”
“Yes, that’s it. She and Mademoiselle Julie ought to have called the same person uncle; but, for lack of certain ceremonies, they don’t. By-the-way, what became of Lady Rose’s younger sister?”
“Lady Blanche? Oh, she married Sir John Moffatt, and has been a widow for years. He left her a place in Westmoreland, and she lives there generally with her girl.”
“Has Mademoiselle Julie ever come across them?”
“No.”
“She speaks of them?”
“Yes. We can’t tell her much about them, except that the girl was presented last year, and went to a few balls in town. But neither she nor her mother cares for London.”
“Lady Blanche Moffatt—Lady Blanche Moffatt?” said Sir Wilfrid, pausing. “Wasn’t she in India this winter?”
“Yes. I believe they went out in November and are to be home by April.”
“Somebody told me they had met her and the girl at Peshawar and then at Simla,” said Sir Wilfrid, ruminating. “Now I remember! She’s a great heiress, isn’t she, and pretty to boot? I know! Somebody told me that fellow Warkworth had been making up to her.”
“Warkworth?” Jacob Delafield stood still a moment, and Sir Wilfrid caught a sudden contraction of the brow. “That, of course, was just a bit of Indian gossip.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sir Wilfrid, dryly. “My informants were two frontier officers—I came from Egypt with them—who had recently been at Peshawar; good fellows both of them, not at all given to take young ladies’ names in vain.”
Jacob made no reply. They had let themselves into the Duke Street house and were groping their way up the dim staircase to Sir Wilfrid’s rooms.
There all was light and comfort. Sir Wilfrid’s valet, much the same age as himself, hovered round his master, brought him his smoking-coat, offered Delafield cigars, and provided Sir Wilfrid, strange to say, with a large cup of tea.
“I follow Mr. Gladstone,” said Sir Wilfrid, with a sigh of luxury, as he sank into an easy-chair and extended a very neatly made pair of legs and feet to the blaze. “He seems to have slept the sleep of the just—on a cup of tea at midnight—through the rise and fall of cabinets. So I’m trying the receipt.”
“Does that mean that you are hankering after politics?”
“Heavens! When you come to doddering, Jacob, it’s better to dodder in the paths you know. I salute Mr. G.’s physique, that’s all. Well, now, Jacob, do you know anything about this Warkworth?”
“Warkworth?” Delafield withdrew his cigar, and seemed to choose his words a little. “Well, I know what all the world knows.”
“Hm—you seemed very sure just now that he wasn’t going to marry Miss Moffatt.”
“Sure? I’m not sure of anything,” said the young man, slowly.
“Well, what I should like to know,” said Sir Wilfrid, cradling his teacup in both hands, “is, what particular interest has Mademoiselle Julie in that young soldier?”
Delafield looked into the fire.
“Has she any?”
“She seems to be moving heaven and earth to get him what he wants. By-the-way, what does he want?”
“He wants the special mission to Mokembe, as I understand,” said Delafield, after a moment. “But several other people want it too.”
“Indeed!” Sir Wilfrid nodded reflectively. “So there is to be one! Well, it’s about time. The travellers of the other European firms have been going it lately in that quarter. Jacob, your mademoiselle also is a bit of an intriguer!”
Delafield made a restless movement. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, to say the least of it, frankness is not one of her characteristics. I tried to question her about this man. I had seen them together in the Park, talking as intimates. So, when our conversation had reached a friendly stage, I threw out a feeler or two, just to satisfy myself about her. But—”
He pulled his fair mustaches and smiled.
“Well?” said the young man, with a kind of reluctant interrogation.
“She played with me, Jacob. But really she overdid it. For such a clever woman, I assure you, she overdid it!”
“I don’t see why she shouldn’t keep her friendships to herself,” said Delafield, with sudden heat.
“Oh, so you admit it is a friendship?”
Delafield did not reply. He had laid down his cigar, and with his hands on his knees was looking steadily into the fire. His attitude, however, was not one of reverie, but rather of a strained listening.
“What is the meaning, Jacob, of a young woman taking so keen an interest in the fortunes of a dashing soldier—for, between you and me, I hear she is moving heaven and earth to get him this post—and then concealing
