Slightly cheered by this reflection, she went up the stairs to her bedroom, where a lamp was burning. Picking up a taper, she lit the candles on her dressing-table, and sat down before the mirror, quite worn out. The plumes in her hair were draggled and limp; her corsage was torn, She put up her hand to it mechanically, and suddenly her eyes widened in horror. She had been wearing some of the Drelincourt jewels—a set of pearls and diamonds, ear- rings, brooch and bracelets. The ear-rings were there, the bracelets still on her wrists, but the brooch had gone.
Her mind flew back to her struggle in Lethbridge’s arms, when her lace had been torn. She stared at her own image in the glass. Under the Serkis rouge she had turned deathly pale. Her face puckered; she burst into tears.
Chapter Fifteen
Nothing intervening to cause the Viscount to swerve from his purpose, he pursued a somewhat erratic course back to Half-Moon Street. Finding the door of Lethbridge’s house open, as Horatia had left it, he walked in without ceremony. The door into the saloon was also ajar, and lights shone. The Viscount put his head into the room and looked round.
Lord Lethbridge was seated in a chair by the table, holding his head in his hands. An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor, and a Catogan wig, slightly dishevelled. Hearing a footfall his lordship looked up and stared blankly across at the Viscount.
The Viscount stepped into the room. “Came to see if you was dead,” he said. “Laid Pom odds you weren’t.”
Lethbridge passed his hand across his eyes. “I’m not,” he replied in a faint voice.
“No. I’m sorry,” said the Viscount simply. He wandered over to the table and sat down. “Horry said she killed you, Pom said So she might, I said No. Nonsense.”
Lethbridge, still holding a hand to his aching head, tried to pull himself together. “Did you?” he said. His eyes ran over his self-invited guest. “I see. Let me assure you once more that I am very much alive.”
“Well, I wish you’d put your wig on,” complained the Viscount.—“What I want to know is why did Horry hit you on the head with a poker?”
Lethbridge gingerly felt his bruised scalp. “With a poker, was it? Pray ask her, though I doubt if she will tell you.”
“You shouldn’t keep the front door open,” said the Viscount. “What’s to stop people coming in and hitting you over the head? It’s preposterous.”
“I wish you would go home,” said Lethbridge wearily.
The Viscount surveyed the supper-table with a knowing eye. “Card party?” he inquired.
“No.”
At that moment the voice of Sir Roland Pommeroy was heard, calling to his friend. He too put his head round the door, and, perceiving the Viscount, came in. “You’re to come home,” he said briefly. “Gave my word to my lady I’d take you home.”
The Viscount pointed a finger at his unwilling host. “He ain’t dead, Pom. Told you he wouldn’t be.”
Sir Roland turned to look closely at Lethbridge. “No, he ain’t dead,” he admitted with some reluctance. “Nothing for it but to go home.”
“Blister it, that’s a tame way to end the night,” protested the Viscount. “Play you a game of piquet.”
“Not in this house,” said Lethbridge, picking up his wig and putting it cautiously on his head again.
“Why not in this house?” demanded the Viscount.
The question was destined to remain unanswered. Yet a third visitor had arrived.
“My dear Lethbridge, pray forgive me, but this odious rain! Not a chair to be had, positively not a chair nor a hackney! And your door standing wide I stepped in to shelter. I trust I don’t intrude?” said Mr Drelincourt, peeping into the room.
“Oh, not in the least!” replied Lethbridge ironically. “By all means come in! I rather think that I have no need to introduce Lord Winwood and Sir Roland Pommeroy to you?”
Mr Drelincourt recoiled perceptibly, but tried to compose his sharp features into an expression of indifference. “Oh, in that case—I had no notion you was entertaining, my lord—you must forgive me!”
“I had no notion of it either,” said Lethbridge. “Perhaps you would care to play piquet with Winwood?”
“Really, you must hold me excused!” replied Mr Drelincourt, edging towards the door.
The Viscount, who had been regarding him fixedly, nudged Sir Roland. “There’s that fellow Drelincourt,” he said.
Sir Roland nodded. “Yes, that’s Drelincourt,” he corroborated. “I don’t know why, but I don’t like him, Pel. Never did. Let’s go.”
“Not at all,” said the Viscount with dignity. “Who asked him to come in? Tell me that! “Pon my soul, it’s a nice thing, so it is, if a fellow can come poking his nose into a private card party. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll pull it for him.”
Mr Drelincourt, thoroughly alarmed, cast an imploring glance at Lethbridge, who merely looked saturnine. Sir Roland, however, restrained his friend. “You can’t do that, Pel. Just remembered you fought the fellow. Should have pulled his nose first. Can’t do it now.” He looked round the room with a frown. “Nother thing!” he said. “It was Monty’s card party, wasn’t it? Well, this ain’t Monty’s house. Knew there was something wrong!”
The Viscount sat up, and addressed himself to Lord Lethbridge with some severity. “Is this a card party or is it not?” he demanded.
“It is not,” replied Lethbridge.
The Viscount rose and groped for his hat. “You should have said so before,” he said. “If it ain’t a card party, what the devil is it?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Lethbridge. “It has been puzzling me for some time.”
“If a man gives a party, he ought to know what kind of a party it is,” argued the Viscount. “If you don’t know, how are we to know? It might be a damned soiree, in which case we wouldn’t have come. Let’s go home, Pom.”
He took Sir Roland’s arm and walked with him to the door. There Sir Roland bethought himself of something, and turned back. “Very pleasant evening, my lord,” he said formally, and bowed, and went out in the Viscount’s wake.
Mr Drelincourt waited until the two bottle-companions were well out of earshot, and gave a mirthless titter. “I did not know you was so friendly with Winwood,” he said. “I do trust I have not broke up your party? But the rain, you know! Not a chair to be had.”
“Rid yourself of the notion that any of you are here by my invitation,” said Lethbridge unpleasantly, and moved across to the table.
Something had caught Mr Drelincourt’s eye. He bent, and picked up from under the corner of the Persian rug a ring brooch of diamonds and pearls of antique design. His jaw dropped; he shot a quick, acute glance at Lethbridge, who was tossing off a glass of wine. The next moment the brooch was in his pocket, and as Lethbridge turned he said airily: “I beg a thousand pardons! I daresay the rain will have stopped. You must permit me to take my leave.”
“With pleasure,” said Lethbridge.
Mr Drelincourt’s eye ran over the supper-table laid for two; he wondered where Lethbridge had hidden his fair visitor. “Don’t, I implore you, put yourself to the trouble of coming to the door!”
“I wish to assure myself that it is shut,” said Lethbridge grimly, and ushered him out.
Some hours later the Viscount awoke to a new but considerably advanced day, with the most imperfect recollections of the night’s happenings. He remembered enough, however, to cause him, as soon as he had swallowed some strong coffee, to fling off the bedclothes and spring up, shouting for his valet.
He was sitting before the dressing-table in his shirt-sleeves, arranging his lace cravat, when word was brought to him that Sir Roland Pommeroy was below and desired a word with him.
“Show him up,” said the Viscount briefly, sticking a pin in the cravat. He picked up his solitaire, a narrow band
