"Here, shall I finish for you?" cried Tom. "Went to Barker's, and had a chop for lunch, read the papers till dinnertime--a wicked wretch, on a Sunday too; then dined--soup, fish, cutlet, cut, off the joint, pint o'

claret, and on a Sunday. Is that right, my hawk-eyed detective?"

"No, my lord. Hem!"

"Will you be silent, Lord Diphoos?" cried her ladyship.

"That is the whole of the fourt entry, my lady."

"And cheap at the money, whatever it is," cried Tom. "I say," he added, scornfully, "do you know where I was on Sunday, you sir?"

"Beg pardon, my lord," said Mr Hurkle, undulating. "You are not on my list, and I have no client making inquiries about you."

"That's a blessing," said Tom, "for them and for you."

"Pray go on, Mr Hurkle," said her ladyship. "Lord Diphoos, I must beg that you do not interrupt."

To address her son as "Lord Diphoos" was in her ladyship's estimation crushing, but Tom did not seem crushed.

"'Monday, sixteenth Hem!'" said Mr Hurkle. "'Saw Mr Melton come out, followed by large-headed bull-dog, short tail, closely-cut ears, one white leg, and--'"

"Left canine tooth in lower jaw knocked out, and lip torn in a fight,"

cried Tom. "Enter that, please."

"Lord Diphoos."

"Oh, all right," cried Tom, savagely. "Here, I say, you sir, get on and finish. This grows interesting."

He glanced across to his sister, who was holding Tryphie's hand, her head erect, lip curling, and a warm flush in her cheeks as she listened to this diary of her lover's doings.

"That is the fift entry," said Mr Hurkle, glancing from one to the other; and then, as a dead silence reigned, he went on--

"'Tuesday, seventeent. Blank. C.M. did not go out,'--That is the sixt entry, my lady.

"'Wednesday, eighteent. Blank. C.M. did not go out.'--That is the sevent entry, my lady.

"'Thursday, ninetent. Watched at Duke Street. Found C.M. was out.

Waited. C.M. returned by north of street and met Lord Barmouth.'"

"Eh, what?" exclaimed her ladyship.

"'His lordship entered Duke Street from the south, after stopping some time to look in picture-dealer's at full-length portrait of a G.o.ddess.'"

"Why, governor!" cried Tom.

"Go on, Mr Hurkle, please. Lord Barmouth, I beg you will not leave the room."

"Certainly not, my dear," said his lordship, rubbing his leg.

"Proceed, Mr Hurkle," said her ladyship, sternly.

"Hem! Yes, my lady. 'C.M. and his lordship went together to Regal Cafe, Regal Street. Dined there.'"

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed her ladyship, with eyes growing very tight. "Proceed."

"But I say, you sir," cried Tom, "wasn't I there?"

"No, my lord. Hem!"

"Wish I had been. I say, gov'nor, it was shabby of you."

Lord Barmouth squirmed--to use his son's words.

"Go on, Mr Hurkle," said her ladyship, patting the carpet with her boot, while his lordship rubbed his leg.

"'Long dinner of many courses. Several kinds of wine, sodas, brandies, and cigars. Gentlemen returned to chambers in Duke Street, smoked cigars till ten; then to Barker's.'"

"Let me see, Lord Barmouth, you said you were unwell last evening?"

"And I was not there," cried Tom.

"That, my lady--hem!" said Mr Hurkle, undulating and threatening to draw himself out--"carries us up to midnight."

"Yes--yes--yes," cried his lordship, rising in great excitement; "and-- and--and it's, damme, it's too much. Tom, Tom, my son, if you don't kick that fellow out of the house, damme, I will, for it's all a piece of--of confounded humbug. I won't have it--I didn't order this to be done--it's--it's--a confounded, damme, it's a cruel insult to me and my family, and I won't--I won't--Tom, my boy, send that fellow away, or I shall--damme, I shall kill him."

"Yes, yes, go now," moaned her ladyship. "I will send to you, Mr Hurkle."

The private inquirer bowed very low, took up his hat and gloves, and, replacing his pocket-book without unb.u.t.toning himself, backed out of the room, as Tom stood with his hands in his pockets, his little waxed moustache sticking out in two sharp points, and grinding his teeth, while poor Lord Barmouth limped about the room trembling with excitement.

"Oh!" moaned her ladyship. "My salts--my drops, Tryphie; this will be the death of me."

"Serve you right," said Tom, savagely. "You brought it on yourself."

"It's--it's too bad. Little innocent amus.e.m.e.nt. Bit o' dinner and gla.s.s o' wine. Charley Melton is all right."

"Yes," said Lady Barmouth, "a gambler, a _roue_. But what wonder. Ah, me! Oh, my poor children. That Melton debauching my husband!"

"And--and--and devilish nice fellow too. I--I--I--I liked it, and-- and--and I wished that you had been there, Tom."

"Thanke, governor."

"Oh, that I should live to hear all this!"

"You--you ought to have kicked that fellow out, Tom."

"Be silent, Barmouth, be silent. Tryphie, ring for Justine to help me to my room. My heart is nearly broken now," she added, in a tone of voice that seemed to indicate that it was only holding together by a little bit of ligament which was ready to go at any moment. "Maude, ungrateful girl, you have heard all. The horrible, dissipated gambler who is dragging my son into his dreadful vortex, and even spreading his meshes around your weak father."

"Weak!" cried Lord Barmouth; "not at all."