Yes, for that reason, as well as the knowledge that he was Gabrielle's brother, he had sought to win Morice's friendship. But ever between them loomed the dark figures of John Denningham and Marcel Trouet.

That both the latter hated him he was aware, returning their animosity with interest.

Left to himself, Morice Conyers had the making of an honourable gentleman, but a fatal weakness and vanity had drawn him down into dark paths of vice and intrigue.

It does not do to look deep into the lives of the town-bred beaux and bucks of that vicious period; but Michael, made of stronger and better stuff, had turned with loathing and disgust from the enjoyments and pastimes into which the necessary shadowing of his father led him.

After many years of privation Sir Stephen was tasting greedily of the pleasures of life.

And Marcel Trouet took care that these should not lack the delicate spice of political intrigue. There are men who court notoriety, clean or unclean. There are others who love their flatterers so much that they allow themselves to be drawn into affairs for which they have no taste, and against which their better instincts cry out l.u.s.tily enough.

Of such were Sir Stephen Berrington and Morice Conyers.

No wonder Michael found his task a hard one, for the two, pitted against him in his work of rescue, were no fools.

The leaders of the glorious Revolution had the greatest confidence in Marcel Trouet.

Lord Denningham might lack morals, but brains he had in plenty.

Without scruples the latter gift is dangerous.

So Michael felt the uneasiness growing in him as he helped his father up the stairs of the lodging they had taken.

"Lesh drink an' b' jolly, an' drownsh melancholy,"

warbled Sir Stephen, rousing himself. "Ha, ha, Mike, boy, drownsh it, drownsh it."

Michael did not reply. He was thinking.

Sir Stephen sank back in an easy-chair, his handsome face flushed, his satin suit crumpled and stained with wine splashes, his wig awry. And over him stood his son, stern and commanding.

"Where is Morice Conyers?" he asked gravely and very slowly, whilst grey eyes dominated wavering blue ones.

Sir Stephen began chuckling.

"Morry! Wantsh to know where Morry is? Why, you knowsh better'n I.

He's with Moosoo. Ha, ha! a pretty joke, split me if it ain't. We'll make them laugh at Almack's over it. Ha, ha! good old Morry. Fancy him turningsh politics! Red capsh, Marsh.e.l.laise, too funny."

"He has gone with Marcel Trouet to France," said Michael, in even, quiet tones.

Sir Stephen looked slily up.

"Marcel Trouet? Ha! ha! He's the birdsh for Paris. Paris! I knowsh Paris. Course I do! Not going there now, though. Marcel may go alone. No redsh caps for me. Mightn't leave head to wear it on. No, no. I'm goingsh, Morry."

"And Morry is going to----?"

"Brittany. Thatsh it! Brittany. Never, never will be slaves. No, no, thatsh wrong. Morry's a Marquish. Gran' thing Marquish, but Morry's not proud. Red capsh for Morry, Marsh.e.l.laise. Send all the demsh arist'crats to the guillotine. That's what Trouet wants. Goodsh fellow, Trouet. Those demsh Bretons such fools. Don't know where breadsh b.u.t.tered. Morry'll teach 'em, an' the little Count can sit an'

shing to Gabrielle. Pretty girl, Gabrielle, Morry's shishter. The little Count'll be waitingsh, an' waitingsh. Ha, ha! 'Have to wait,'

says Marcel. b.u.mpers on that. Morry'll dosh own work to ownsh tune.

Won't be dictated to by whipper-shnappers. I'm with Morry--Denningham an' I'sh with Morry. All goin' together. Good joke that. Right side too. No danger there. Quality, libertysh, fraternitish."

His head fell forward as he spoke, though he lay chuckling still.

And Michael, standing there in that mean room, with the helpless, drunken figure in a bunch before him, felt his pulses stir with something more wild and despairing than mere loathing.

The tale, which would have been incomprehensible enough but for Mollie Cooling, was plain now.

Urged to it by the subtle arguments of Marcel Trouet, Morice Conyers was evidently allowing himself to betray not only his own order, but his own kith and kin.

The simple Breton peasants, who awaited the word of their seigneur, were to hear it as young de Quernais had asked that they should.

But, alas! how different a word would it be to what was antic.i.p.ated.

Instead of sealing the hopes of that gallant enterprise led by la Rouerie and other n.o.ble gentlemen of Brittany, the doom of the Chouannerie would be p.r.o.nounced, and the Republic would again triumph.

The balances, trembling and uncertain, would sink under the weight of a traitor's blow.

All an Englishman's notions of honour and fair play rose in revolt against the hideous baldness of the facts.

Yet what could he do?

Doubtless, both Trouet and Conyers were already on their way, and the latter would soon be joined by his evil genii, Lord Denningham and Sir Stephen.

Against these what weight would his unsupported word carry?

A laugh, threats, _failure_--yes, that was all he minded,--that last; and it would be inevitable, seeing that he could not fight his own father,--and Trouet was no duellist.

What should he do? What should he do?

The question drummed ceaselessly in his ear, whilst honour's mournful ghost seemed to rise to his side, looking at him with Sir Henry's reproachful eyes.

Could he not, by some means, save them both,--these two, weak backsliders, from this same honour's roll,--and thus redeem his vow and wipe that dimmer blot from the scutcheon of his house?

Save Morice Conyers and his father! Pray Heaven to find a way for that!

An idea came to him, a swift flash, which carried but a half-germ of hope to his heart, as he stood listening to Sir Stephen's heavy breathing.

At least he could ride to Langton Hall and warn Count Jehan that he was betrayed.

He shrank from proclaiming Gabrielle's brother traitor, yet better first than last, since truth and proof must out.

Yes, he would warn de Quernais, and then, perchance, Providence would show him the fashion of his next step.

With head erect, and pulses on fire, he turned, striding down the narrow stairway and out into the street below.

Their horses were at the inn-stable opposite, though mine host of the Flying Fish had had no accommodation for more guests.

On his way Michael pa.s.sed merry bands of revellers, for the Prince had brought Brighton into considerable fashion; he also pa.s.sed one solitary figure, wrapped in a long driving-coat over a rich suit of silk and satin. It was Lord Denningham, hurrying from the Pavilion to the lodging of Sir Stephen Berrington.

Sir Stephen's son set his jaw grimly. There was to be a fight of sorts between them, even though, at present, his sword lay idle in its scabbard.