"Because I have just left there."

"Are the horses all right, Bev?"

"Yes, d.i.c.k."

"Ah!" sighed the Viscount, falling back among his pillows, "and everything is quite quiet, eh?"

"Very quiet,--now, d.i.c.k."

"Eh?" cried the Viscount, coming erect again, "Bev, what d' you mean?"

"I mean that three men broke in again to-night--"

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed the Viscount, beginning to scramble out of bed.

"But we drove them off before they had done--what they came for."

"Did you, Bev,--did you? ah,--but didn't you catch any of 'em?"

"No; but my horse did."

"Your horse? Oh, Beverley,--d'you mean he--"

"Killed him, d.i.c.k!"

Once more the Viscount sank back among his pillows and stared up at the ceiling a while ere he spoke again--

"By the Lord, Bev," said he, at last, "the stable-boys might well call him 'The Terror'!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "he has earned his name, d.i.c.k."

"And the man was--dead, you say?"

"Hideously dead, d.i.c.k,--and in his pocket we found this!" and Barnabas produced a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and put it into the Viscount's reluctant hand. "Look at it, d.i.c.k, and tell me what it is."

"Why, Bev,--deuce take me, it's a plan of our stables! And they've got it right, too! Here's 'Moonraker's' stall marked out as pat as you please, and 'The Terror's,' but they've got his name wrong--"

"My horse had no name, d.i.c.k."

"But there's something written here."

"Yes, look at it carefully, d.i.c.k."

"Well, here's an H, and an E, and--looks like 'Hera,' Bev!"

"Yes, but it isn't. Look at that last letter again, d.i.c.k!"

"Why, I believe--by G.o.d, Bev,--it's an E!"

"Yes,--an E, d.i.c.k."

"'Here'!" said the Viscount, staring at the paper; "why, then--why, Bev,--it was--your horse they were after!"

"My horse,--yes, d.i.c.k."

"But he's a rank outsider--he isn't even in the betting! In heaven's name, why should any one--"

"Look on the other side of the paper, d.i.c.k."

Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this:

RONALD BARRYMAINE ESQUIRE.

"And d.i.c.k," said Barnabas, "it is in Chichester's handwriting."

CHAPTER L

IN WHICH RONALD BARRYMAINE SPEAKS HIS MIND

The whiskers of Mr. Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.

He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to the cheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire.

At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeing Barnabas, sank back again.

"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again--that is to say--" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner, "that is to say,--I mean--ah--in short, my dear Beverley, I'm delighted to see you!"

"Pray what do you mean by safe?"

"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean--safe, sir,--a very natural wish, surely?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"

"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,--"why, yes, of course--"

"At least, the Viscount told me so."

"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,--very!"

"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was evidently a bedroom.

"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it.

You have hit the nail exactly--upon the n.o.b, sir." Here, having found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it, and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,--it is a bitter cud, cursedly so,--wherein the milk of human kindness is curdled, sir, curdled most d.a.m.nably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my friend Barry--wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the hammer of Adversity alone can weld,--scorning Friendship's holy obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,--upon Digby,--upon faithful Dig, and--in short has--ah--hopped the mutual perch, sir."

"Do you mean he has left you?"