Easily said--far less easily done, especially by a nervous highly strung temperament such as that of the speaker.

"But who is this person?" went on Lady Orlebar, again scanning the letter. "The people he is with now are named Daventer--not Glover. Do you know who it can be?"

"Honestly, I don't. To the best of my belief I never heard the name before in my life. All the more does it look like a try-on--an impudent and barefaced try-on. On second thoughts, however, I'll send it up to Stretton in the morning, and tell him to see if he can make anything out of it, or to act as he thinks fit. Yes, that's what I'll do."

"Why don't you send for Philip himself and make him explain. It appears to me that he would be the proper person to throw what light he could upon the matter."

"Oh, it's of no use worrying the boy. He may be here any day now.

It'll be time enough then."

Lady Orlebar gave a snort of defiance. The above remark was as a direct challenge to her to renew the battle. But her husband looked so anxious, so worried himself, that even she forebore, for once, to worry him further.

There was silence in the room. Sir Francis sat abstractedly gazing upon the table in front of him--in reality seeing nothing at all. His whole mind was filled up with this sc.r.a.pe that his son had got into. It was not the amount of the claim that affected him--on that point he felt fairly secure. Philip was of age, but had not a shilling in the world of his own; out of him, therefore, nothing could be got. But that his name should once more be dragged through the mud, and that at the instance of a harpy, an adventuress, this was where the sting of it all lay. "Once more," we said. For Sir Francis had very good reasons of his own for avoiding anything that should drag his name into notoriety.

So unpleasantly absorbing were his reflections, so rapt was he in his reverie, that the entrance of the butler was wholly unnoticed. Not until the man had twice drawn his attention to the card which lay upon a salver did he awake from his abstraction, and then it was with a start, for the card was inscribed--"Mr Richard Fordham."

Fordham!--Phil's friend, whom he had more than once pressingly invited to make a stay at Claxby Court, which invitation had persistently been declined upon one ground or another. Fordham--the man who had been Philip's travelling companion, guide, philosopher, and friend during the past year. Surely if any one knew anything of this unfortunate affair, Fordham was the man. True, it would have struck him at any other time that to arrive after dinner unannounced and unexpected was somewhat of an odd proceeding, but Phil had always described his friend as an out-and-out eccentricity. Besides, his visit might relate to this very affair. The baronet saw light. "Where is this gentleman, Karslake?" he said eagerly. "I showed him into the library, Sir Francis. He said he would not detain you long, and his fly is waiting for him at the door."

The library was lighted only by one shaded lamp in the centre of the table; consequently it was in semi-gloom. The visitor was seated in a low chair with his back to the door, and Sir Francis on entering hardly perceived him. Then, closing the door behind him and giving a slight cough, the baronet began--

"Mr Fordham, I believe--Garcia! Oh, good G.o.d!"

And then, with a low cry of amazement and horror, he stopped short, staggered back a pace or two, and stood gazing helplessly at his visitor.

For the latter, as soon as he heard the door close, had risen and wheeled round rapidly to face the other. Now, as he stood there, the light full upon him, the saturnine features wreathed into a smile that was more than half a sneer; the look of triumphant malice upon that dark countenance was positively satanic.

"The name on the card was Fordham," said Sir Francis, vacantly. "I recognised it as that of my son's friend. What does it all mean?"

"It means this, Francis Orlebar. Your son's friend of to-day, hight Fordham, is the same individual as your friend of years ago, hight Garcia. Are you beginning to see?"

The question was scarcely needed. As the whole truth burst in upon him that this man, whose ruthless hate he had incurred--not wrongfully either--long years ago, had been his son's confidant and constant travelling companion now, the look of horror and repulsion upon the baronet's countenance was in itself sufficient answer.

"You do!" went on the other. "Quite so--I knew you would. And now you are wondering what on earth was my object in const.i.tuting myself guide, philosopher, and friend to your son, for no man can be more certain than yourself that that object was not likely to be to Philip's advantage.

Do you follow me?"

"I do. But Garcia, though I wronged you--wronged you unpardonably, I admit--years ago, you would surely not extend your rancour, just as that may be as regards myself--your revengeful bitterness--to an innocent boy--one who is incapable of harming anybody. Surely even you would stop short at this. We are both comparatively near the end of our lives--his is all before him. Surely even you would shrink from doing anything to poison that life."

"Did you shrink from poisoning mine, Francis Orlebar? Still, upon my soul, I believe you were more sinned against than sinning. I almost think, if it concerned you alone, I would have let it pa.s.s. But in striking you I shall equally well strike her--that she-devil. I had almost decided to bury the whole affair, but I could not let her escape.

She should supply the weapon--the weapon I wanted. I forced her to be the instrument of revenge upon herself equally as upon you. That sort of revenge was too appetising, too wholly unique, to be thrown away."

Never a strong man at any time, when he was unnerved Sir Francis was as weak as water. He was now thoroughly unnerved. His face was as white as death and his voice shook.

"Man--man!" he gasped, "what are you driving at? What have you done?

Speak out--or are you too great a coward?"

But Fordham only smiled--the same cruel, satanic smile, which consisted of little else than the droop of the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying the other's anguished suspense--gloating over these mental writhings--as he had come there intending to do. But before he could frame an answer, an interruption occurred. The door opened suddenly, and there entered no less a personage than Lady Orlebar.

The fact was, she reckoned the time had come for her to bear her share in the interview. There should be no mysteries apart from her cognisance in that house, while she was in it. So allowing sufficient time to float them into the swing of the discussion, she had swooped down upon them, suddenly, decisively, as was her wont. But disappointment awaited. Beyond a stiff bow, Fordham's att.i.tude underwent no change--nor did he utter a single word. He stood, unmistakably, ostentatiously, waiting for her to go out again.

But this she had no intention of doing. One glance at her husband satisfied her that a stronger spirit was needed to cope with the man before her.

"Sir Francis has not been very well lately," she began, looking at Fordham. "He is anything but strong, and this news about his son has sadly upset him."

It was Fordham's turn to look astonished. To what news did she allude?

He himself had certainly not imparted any--not yet.

"Of course it is a very tiresome and disconcerting thing," she went on, "although likely to prove all sheet-and-turnip--for one can hardly believe it genuine or likely to stand the test of a court of law."

"I hope you may not be mistaken in that last surmise," remarked Fordham grimly, and in a tone which implied that he very much hoped she might.

They were at cross purposes.

"Well, it's an annoying thing, anyway. Who are these Glovers, Mr Fordham, and how did Philip manage to get into their clutches? Of course you know they have brought an action for breach of promise against him?"

"I didn't. I know, however, that they threatened to. In fact, I was instrumental in rescuing him from their clutches. They are an underbred lot, anyway."

"I thought so?" cried Lady Orlebar eagerly, while Sir Francis started, and stared bewildered at his visitor. If the latter had stood Philip's friend in this affair surely he had no intention of injuring him. But this world is one of cruel contrasts.

"I am surprised you have heard nothing of this, Mr Fordham," she went on. "We thought it was upon this subject that you had done us the favour to call. May I ask, then--what is the nature of your business with Sir Francis?"

If Fordham was inwardly bursting with sardonic mirth, he was not going to show it. The unbounded impudence of the woman, practically asking him what the devil he wanted there at all--and expecting he was going to tell her--struck him as the richest thing he had heard for a very long time.

"Pardon me, Lady Orlebar, if I seem rude," he answered, shortly; "but the nature of my business happens to concern Sir Francis alone. We had only just begun to enter upon it when you came in; but if Sir Francis is not equal to hearing my communication to-night I shall be happy to call again in the morning, or in a day or two."

But Sir Francis was equal--very much so. The suspense he was undergoing was far too real--sickening in fact. So he turned upon his spouse with an energy that astonished that now irate personage.

"I think, my dear, you had perhaps better leave us. Our business is private and important--in fact, very important." And going over to the door he held it open for her in such wise as to leave her no alternative.

"Very well, Sir Francis," she spluttered, fairly beside herself with rage. "I am turned out of the room, mind, and by you! Very well. But I have no wish to hear your secrets. They are sure to be of a discreditable nature, anyhow."

With this parting shot she disappeared. Fordham, looking after her, slightly shook his head, and reflected that if he had thought to chastise his old enemy with whips, a.s.suredly Fate had elected to do so with scorpions. Anybody under the heel of such a woman as this, had about come to the bottom of the cup of misfortune. Surely he had nothing worse left to fear.

"And now that we are alone," said Sir Francis, coming back from the door which he had closed after his wife, "perhaps you will er--enlighten me as to the nature of this communication."

He looked so unstrung, so worn, so piteous in his agony of suspense, that even a ray of ruth may have entered the heart of his implacable enemy. But if so, it was quickly quenched.

"Did it never strike you as odd?" said the latter, "that Philip should have been back all these weeks, and yet not have thought it worth his while running over to see you?"

Just what his wife had said. Sir Francis felt his apprehensions deepening; but he made no reply. Perhaps he could not.

"Well, he is more attractively employed, at any rate--for the time being," emphasised Fordham. "In proof whereof--look at this."

He produced a telegram from his pocket; deliberately unfolded it, then handed it to the other. Sir Francis' face grew deathly white as he read it, and he gave a sort of gasp. He could only stare at the paper, then at Fordham, then at the paper again.

Thus ran the latter:--

"_Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap.

Phil_."

"Is this a practical joke of yours?" gasped the baronet at length, as soon as he could find words.