Chapter IX. Watier’s (2)

    “There is the card-room, Rodney,” said my uncle, as we passed an open door on our way out. Glancing in, I saw a line of little green baize tables with small groups of men sitting round, while at one side was a longer one, from which there came a continuous murmur of voices. “You may lose what you like in there, save only your nerve or your temper,” my uncle continued. “Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that the luck was with you?”
    A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face, had stepped out of the open doorway. His heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed at the cheek and temple like water-grooved flint. He was dressed entirely in black, and I noticed that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had been drinking.
    “Lost like the deuce,” he snapped.
    “Dice?”
    “No, whist.”
    “You couldn’t get very hard hit over that.”
    “Couldn’t you?” he snarled. “Play a hundred a trick and a thousand on the rub, losing steadily for five hours, and see what you think of it.”
    My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard look upon the other’s face.
    “I hope it’s not very bad,” he said.
    “Bad enough. It won’t bear talking about. By the way, Tregellis, have you got your man for this fight yet?”
    “No.”
    “You seem to be hanging in the wind a long time. It’s play or pay, you know. I shall claim forfeit if you don’t come to scratch.”
    “If you will name your day I shall produce my man, Sir Lothian,” said my uncle, coldly.
    “This day four weeks, if you like.”
    “Very good. The 18th of May.”
    “I hope to have changed my name by then!”
    “How is that?” asked my uncle, in surprise.
    “It is just possible that I may be Lord Avon.”
    “What, you have had some news?” cried my uncle, and I noticed a tremor in his voice.
    “I’ve had my agent over at Monte Video, and he believes he has proof that Avon died there. Anyhow, it is absurd to suppose that because a murderer chooses to fly from justice—”
    “I won’t have you use that word, Sir Lothian,” cried my uncle, sharply.
    “You were there as I was. You know that he was a murderer.”
    “I tell you that you shall not say so.”
    Sir Lothian’s fierce little grey eyes had to lower themselves before the imperious anger which shone in my uncle’s.
    “Well, to let that point pass, it is monstrous to suppose that the title and the estates can remain hung up in this way for ever. I’m the heir, Tregellis, and I’m going to have my rights.”
    “I am, as you are aware, Lord Avon’s dearest friend,” said my uncle, sternly. “His disappearance has not affected my love for him, and until his fate is finally ascertained, I shall exert myself to see that his rights also are respected.”
    “His rights would be a long drop and a cracked spine,” Sir Lothian answered, and then, changing his manner suddenly, he laid his hand upon my uncle’s sleeve.
    “Come, come, Tregellis, I was his friend as well as you,” said he. “But we cannot alter the facts, and it is rather late in the day for us to fall out over them. Your invitation holds good for Friday night?”
    “Certainly.”
    “I shall bring Crab Wilson with me, and finally arrange the conditions of our little wager.”
    “Very good, Sir Lothian: I shall hope to see you.” They bowed, and my uncle stood a little time looking after him as he made his way amidst the crowd.
    “A good sportsman, nephew,” said he. “A bold rider, the best pistol-shot in England, but . . . a dangerous man!”