 CHAPTER IX. THE GENERAL ORDER. Sir Terence sat alone in his spacious, severely furnished private room in the official quarters at Monsanto. On the broad-carved writing-table before him there was a mass of documents relating to the clothing and accoutrements of the forces, to leaves of absence, to staff appointments. There were returns from the various divisions of the sick and wounded in hospital, from which a complete list was to be prepared for the Secretary of State for war at home. There were plans of the lines that Taurus Vagris just received, indicating the progress of the works at various points. And there were documents and communications of all kinds, concerned with the Adjutant General's multifarious and arduous duties, including an urgent letter from Colonel Fletcher, suggesting that the Commander-in-Chief should take an early opportunity of inspecting in person the inner lines of fortification. Sir Terence, however, sat back in his chair, his work neglected, his eyes dreamily gazing through the open window, but seeing nothing of the sun-drenched landscape beyond. A heavy frown darkening, his bronze and rugged face, his mind was very far from his official duties and the mass of reminders before him. This agian stable of arrears, he was lost in thought of his wife and Tremay. Five days had elapsed since the ball at Count Redondo's, where Sir Terence had surprised the pair together in the garden, and his suspicions had been fired by the compromising attitude in which he had discovered them. Tremay's frank easy-bearing, so unassociable with guilt, had, as we know, gone far to reassure him, and had even shamed him so that he had trampled his suspicions under foot. But other things had happened since to revive his bitter doubts. daily, constantly, had he been coming upon Tremay and Lady Omoy alone together in intimate confidential talk, which was ever silenced on his approach. The two had taken to wandering by themselves in the gardens at all hours, a thing that had never been so before, and Omoy detected, or imagined that he detected, a closer intimacy between them, a greater warmth towards the captain on the part of her ladyship. This matters had reached a pass in which peace of mind was impossible to him. It was not merely what he saw, it was his knowledge of what was. It was his ever-present consciousness of his own age, and his wife's youth. It was the memory of his internuptial jealousy of Tremayne, which had been awakened by the gossip of those days. A gossip that pronounced Tremayne, Oona Butler's poor suitor, too poor either to declare himself, or to be accepted if he did. The old wound which that gossip had dealt him, then, was reopened now. He thought of Tremayne's manifest concern for Oona. He remembered how in that very room some six weeks ago, when Butler's escapade had first been heard of, it was from avowed concern for Oona that Tremayne had urged him to befriend and rescue his rascally brother-in-law. He remembered, too, with increasing bitterness, that it was Oona herself had induced him to appoint Tremayne to his staff. There were moments when the conviction of Tremayne's honesty, the thought of Tremayne's unanswering friendship for himself, would surge up to combat and abate the fires of his devastating jealousy. But evidence would kindle those fires anew, until they flamed up to scorch his soul with shame and anger. He had been a fool, and that he had married a woman of half his years, a fool in that he had suffered her former lover to be thrown into close association with her. Thus he assured himself, but he would abide by his folly. And so must she, and he would see to it that whatever fruits that folly yielded dishonor should not be one of them. Through all his dark mean rage there beat the light of reason. To avert, he bethought him, was better than to avenge, nor were such stains to be wiped out by vengeance. A cuckold remains a cuckold, though he take the life of the man who has reduced him to that ignominy. Tremayne must go before the evil, transcended reparation, let him return to his regiment and do his work of sapping and mining elsewhere, then in a moist household. Just by that resolve he rose, a tall marshal figure, youth and energy in every line of it for all his six and forty years. A while he paced the room in thought. Then suddenly, with hands clenched behind his back, he checked by the window. Checked on a horrible question that had flashed upon his tortured mind. What if already the evil should be irreparable? What proof had he that it was not so? The door opened and Tremayne himself came in quickly. Here's the very devil to pay, sir. He announced, with that odd mixture of familiarity, towards his friend and deference to his cheek. Omoy looked at him in silence, with smoldering, questioning eyes, thinking of anything but the trouble which the captain's air and manner heralded. Captain Stanhope has just arrived from headquarters with messages for you. A terrible thing has happened, sir. The dispatches from home by the Thunderbolt, which we forwarded from here three weeks ago, reached Lord Wellington only the day before yesterday. Sartarens became instantly alert. Garfield, who carried them, came into collision at Pinalba with an officer of Anson's brigade. There was a meeting and Garfield was shot through the line. He lay between life and death for a fortnight, with the result that the dispatches were delayed until he recovered sufficiently to remember them, and to have them forwarded by other hands, which you had better see Stanhope himself. The aid to camp came in. He was splashed from head to foot in witness of the fury with which he had ridden. His hair was caked with dust, and his face haggard, but he carried himself with soldierly uprightness, and his speech was brisk. He repeated what Remain had already stated, with some few additional details. This wretched fellow, sent Lord Wellington a letter dictated from his bed, in which he swore that the duel was forced upon him, and that his honour allowed him no alternative. I don't think any feature of the case has so deeply angered Lord Wellington as this stupid plea. He mentioned that when Sir John Moore was in Herreres, in the course of his retreat upon Peruna, he sent forward instruction for the Leaning Division to halt at Lugo, where he designed to deliver battle if the enemy would accept it. That dispatch was carried to Sir David Baird by one of Sir John's aides, but Sir David forwarded it by the hand of a trooper who got drunk and lost it. That says Lord Wellington is the only parallel so far as he is aware of the present case. With this difference, that whilst a common trooper might so far fail to appreciate the importance of his mission, no such lack of appreciation can excuse Captain Garfield. I am glad of that, said Sir Terrence, who had been bristling. For a moment I imagined that it was to be implied. I had been as indiscreet in my choice of a messenger as Sir David Baird. No note, Sir Terrence, I merely repeated Lord Wellington's words, that you may realize how deeply angered he is. If Garfield recovers from his wound, he will be tried by court marshal. He is under open arrest, meanwhile, as is his opponent in the duel, a major sight of the twenty-third dragoons. That they will both be broke is beyond doubt, but that is not all. This affair, which might have such grave consequences, I mean so soon upon Major Berkeley's business, has driven Lord Wellington to a step regarding which this letter will instruct you. Sir Terrence broke the seal, the letter pinned by a secretary, but Baird Wellington's own signature ran as follows. The bearer Captain Stanhope will inform you of the particulars of this disgraceful business of Captain Garfield's. The affair following so soon upon that of Major Berkeley has determined me to make it clearly understood, to the officers in His Majesty's service, that they have been sent to the peninsular to fight the French, and not each other or members of the civilian population. While this campaign continues, and as long as I am in charge of it, I am determined not to suffer upon any plea whatever, the abominable practice of dueling among those under my command. I desire you to publish this immediately in general orders, and joining upon officers of all ranks, without exception, the necessity to postpone the settlement of private quarrels, at least until the close of this campaign. And to add force to this instruction, you will make it known that any infringement of this order will be considered as a capital offense, that any officer hereafter either sending or accepting a challenge will, if found guilty by a general court-martial, be immediately shot. Sir Terence nodded slowly. Very well, he said. The measure is most wise, although I doubt if it will be popular. But then unpopularity is the fate of wise measures. I am glad the matter has not ended more seriously. The dispatches in question, so far as I can recollect, were not of great urgency. There is something more, said Captain Stanhope. The dispatches bore signs of having been tampered with. It was a question from Tremaine, charged with incredulity. But who would have tampered with them? There were signs that is all Garfield was taken to the house of the parish priest, where he lay lost, until he recovered sufficiently to realize his position for himself. No doubt you will have a schedule of the contents of the dispatch, Sir Terence. Certainly it is in your possession, I think, Tremaine. Tremaine turned to his desk, in a brief search in one of its well-ordered drawers, brought to light an oblong strip of paper, folded and endorsed. He unfolded and spread it on Sir Terence's table, whilst Captain Stanhope producing a note with which he came equipped. Stooped to check, off the items, and finally placed his finger under one of the lines of Tremaine's schedule, carefully studying his own note for a moment. He said quietly at last, What's this? And he read, Notes from Lord Liverpool of reinforcements to be embarked for Lisbon in June or July. He looked at the adjutant and the adjutant secretary. That would appear to be the most important document of all, indeed the only document of any vital importance, and it was not included in the dispatch as it reached Lord Wellington. The three looked gravely at one another in silence. Have you a copy of the note, Sir? inquired the aide-decamp. Not a copy, but a summary of its contents. The figures it contained are penciled there on the margin. Tremaine answered. Allow me, Sir, said Stanhope, and taking up a quill from the adjutant's table, he rapidly copied the figures. Lord Wellington must have this memorandum as soon as possible. The rest, Sir Terence, is, of course, a manner for yourself. You will know what to do. Meanwhile, I shall report to his lordship what has occurred. I had best set out at once. If you will rest for an hour and give my wife the pleasure of your company at luncheon, I shall have a letter ready for Lord Wellington, replied Sir Terence. Perhaps you'll see to it Tremaine. He added without waiting for Captain Stanhope's answer to an invitation which amounted to a command. Thus Stanhope was led away, and Sir Terence, all other matters forgotten for the moment, sat down to write his letter. Later in the day after Captain Stanhope had taken his departure, the duty fell to Tremaine of framing the general order and seeing to the dispatch of a copy to each division. I wonder, he said to Sir Terence, who will be the first to break it? Why, the fool, who's most anxious to be broke himself, ordered Sir Terence. There appeared to be reservations about it in Tremaine's mind. It's a devilish stringent regulation, he criticized. But very salutary and very necessary. Oh, quite! Tremaine's agreement was unhesitating. But I shouldn't care to feel the restraint of it, and I think heaven I have no enemy thirsting for my blood. Sir Terence's brow darkened. His face was turned away from his secretary. How can a man be confident of that? He wondered. Oh, a clean conscience, I suppose. Laughed Tremaine, and he gave his attention to his papers. Frankness, honesty, and light-heartedness rang so clear in the words that they sowed in Sir Terence's mind, fresh doubts of the galling suspicion he had been harboring. Do you boast a clean conscience, eh, Ned? He asked, unnot without a lurking shame, at this deliberate sly searching of the other's mind. Yet he strained his ears for the answer. Almost clean, said Tremaine. Temptation doesn't stain when it's resisted, does it? Sir Terence trembled, but he controlled himself. Nay, now, that's a question for the caudalists. They might answer you that it depends upon the temptation. And he asked, point-blank, what's tempting you? Tremaine was in a mood for confidences, and Sir Terence was his friend. But he hesitated. His answer to the question was an irrelevance. It's just hell to be poor, oh boy. He said. The adjutant turned to stare at him. Tremaine was sitting with his head resting on one hand, the fingers thrusting through the crisp, fair hair. And there was gloom in his clear-cut face, a dullness in the usually keen gray eyes. Is there anything on your mind? Sir Terence? Temptation was the answer. It's an unpleasant thing to struggle against. But you spoke of poverty. To be sure if I weren't poor I could put my fortunes to the test and make an end of the matter one way or the other. There was a pause. Sure, I hope I'm the last man to force a confidence, Ned. Said, oh, boy, but you certainly seem as if it would do you good to confide. Tremaine shook himself mentally. I think we had better deal with the matter of this dispatch. That was tampered with at Penalba. So we will, to be sure, but it can wait a minute. Sir Terence pushed back his chair and rose. He crossed to his secretary's side. What's on your mind, Ned? He asked with abrupt solicitude. And Ned could not suspect that it was the matter, on Sir Terence's own mind that was urging him, but urging him hopefully. Captain Tremaine looked up with a rueful smile. I thought you boasted that you never forced a confidence. And then he looked away. Sylvia Armitage tells me that she is thinking of returning to England. For a moment the words seemed to Sir Terence a fresh irrelevance, another attempt to change the subject. Then quite suddenly a light broke upon his mind, shedding a relief so great and joyous that he sought to check it almost in fear. It is more than she has told me. He answered steadily, but then no doubt you enjoyed her confidence. Tremaine flashed him a rye glance and looked away again. Alas, he said, and fetched a sigh. And as Sylvia the temptation, Ned, Tremaine was silent for a while, little dreaming how Sir Terence hung upon his answer, how impatiently he awaited it. Of course, he said at last, isn't it obvious to anyone, and he grew rhapsodical. How can a man be daily in her company without succumbing to her loveliness, to her matchless grace of body and of mind, without perceiving that she is incomparable, peerless, as much above other woman, as an angel perhaps might be above herself, before his glum solemnity, and before something else that Tremaine could not suspect? Sir Terence exploded into laughter. With the immense and joyous relief in it, his secretary caught no hint. All he heard was its sheer amusement, and this galled and shamed him, for no man cares to be laughed at for such feelings as Tremaine had been led into betraying. You think it's something to laugh at, he said tartly. Laugh, is it? spluttered Sir Terence. God grant I don't burst a blood vessel. Tremaine reddened. When you've indulged in your humor, sir. He said, stiffly, perhaps you'll consider the matter of this dispatch. But Sir Terence laughed more uproariously than ever. He came to stand beside Tremaine, and slapped him hardly on the shoulder. You'll kill me, Ned. He protested, for God's sake, not so glum, if that makes you ridiculous. I'm sorry you find me ridiculous. Nay then it's glad you ought to be, by my soul, if Sylvia tempts you, man, why the devil don't you just succumb and have done with it. She's handsome enough and well set up with her heir of an Amazon, and she rides uncommon straight begat. Indeed it's a brothel of a girl she is in the hunting field, the ballroom, or at the breakfast table, although Riper Acquaintance may discover her not to be quite all that you imagine her at present. Let your temptation lead you, then, entirely, and good luck to you, my boy. Didn't I tell you, oh, my, answered the captain, mollified a little by the sympathy and good feeling peeping through the adjutant's boisterousness, that poverty is just hell, it's my poverty that's in the way. It is that all, then it's thankful you should be that Sylvia armadage has got enough for two. That's just it. Just what? The obstacle I could marry a poor woman, but Sylvia? Have you spoken to her? Tremaine was indignant. How do you suppose I could? It a lot of occurred to you that the lady may have feelings which having aroused, you ought to be considering. A wry smile and a shake of the head was Tremaine's only answer, and then carithers came in fresh from Lisbon, where he had been upon business connected with the commissariat, and to Tremaine's relief the subject was perforce abandoned. Yet he marveled several times that day that the hilarity he should have awakened in certaince continued to cling to the adjutant, and that despite the many vexatious matters claiming attention, he should preserve an irrepressible and almost boyish geody. Meanwhile, however, the coming of carithers had brought the adjutant a moment's seriousness, and he reverted to the business of Captain Garfield. When he had mentioned the missing note, carithers very properly became gray, he was a short, stiffly built man with a round, good-humored, rather florid face. The matter must be probed at once, sir. He ventured. We know that we move in a tangle of intrigues and esplanage, but such a thing as this has never happened before. Have you anything to go upon? Captain Stanhope gave us nothing, said the adjutant. It would be best, perhaps, to get Grant to look into it, said Tremaine. If he is still in Lisbon, said Sir Terence, I passed him in the street an hour ago, replied carithers. Then by all means let a note be sent to him asking him if he will step up to Monsanto as soon as he conveniently can. You might see to it Tremaine. End of Chapter 9 Read by Peter Strom in Peru On February 23, 2019 Chapter 10 The Snare by Raphael Sabatini This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 The Stifled Quarrel It was noon of the next day before Colonel Grant came to the house at Monsanto, from whose balcony floated the British flag, and before whose portals stood a century in the tall bare skin of the Grenadiers. He found the adjutant alone in his room, and apologized for the delay in responding to his invitation, pleading the urgency of other matters that he had in hand. A wise enactment this of Lord Wellington's was his next comment. I mean this prohibition of dueling. It may be resented by some of our young bloods as an unwarrantable interference with their privileges. But it will do a deal of good, and no one can deny that there is ample cause for the measure. It's on the subject of the cause that I'm wanting to consult you," said Sartarens, offering his visitor a chair. Have you been informed of the details? No. Let me give you them. And he related how the dispatch bore signs of having been tampered with, and how the only document of any real importance came to be missing from it. Colonel Grant, sitting with his saber across his knee, listened gravely and thoughtfully. In the end he shrugged his shoulders. The keen hawk face unmoved. The harm is done, and cannot very well be repaired. The information obtained, no doubt on behalf of Masena, will by now be on its way to him. Let us be thankful that the matter is not more grave, and thankful too that you were able to supply a copy of Lord Liverpool's figures. What do you want me to do? Take steps to discover the spy whose existence is disclosed by this event. Boccahone Grant smiled. That is precisely the matter which has brought me to Lisbon. How! Sartarens was amazed. You knew. Oh! Not that this had happened, but that the spy, or rather a network of espionage, existed. We move here in a web of intrigue wrought by ill-will, self-interest, vindictiveness, and every form of malice. Thus the great bulk of the Portuguese people, and their leaders, are cooperating with us. There is a strong party opposing us, which would prefer even to see the French prevail. Of course you are aware of this. The heart and brain of all this is, as I gather, the principal Susa. Wellington has compelled his retirement from the government. But if by doing so he has restricted the man's power for evil, he has certainly increased his will for evil and his activities. You tell me that Garfield was cared for by the parish priest at Penalva. There you are. Half the priesthood of the country are on Susa's side, since the patriarch of Lisbon himself is little more than a tool of Susa's. What happens? This priest discovers that the British officer, whom he has so charitably put to bed in his house, is the bearer of dispatches. A loyal man would instantly have communicated with Marshall Beresford at Thomar. This fellow, instead, advises the intrigers in Lisbon. The captain's dispatches are examined, and the only document of real value is abstracted. Of course it would be difficult to establish a case against the priest, and it is always vexatious and troublesome to have dealings with that class, as it generally means trouble with the peasantry. But the case is as clear as crystal. But the intrigers here, can you not deal with them? I have them under observation, replied the colonel. I already knew the leaders, Susa's lieutenants, in Lisbon, and I can put my hand upon them at any moment. If I have not already done so, it is because I find it more profitable to leave them at large. It is possible, indeed, that I may never proceed to extremes against them, concede that they have enabled me to seize La Flesche, the most dangerous, insidious, and skillful of all Napoleon's agents. I found him at Redondo's ball, last week in the uniform of a Portuguese major, and after him I was able to track down Susa's chief instrument. I discovered them closeted with him in one of the card rooms. And you didn't arrest them? Arrest them. I apologized for my intrusion, and withdrew. La Flesche took his leave of them. He was to have left Lisbon at dawn, equipped with a passport, countersigned by yourself, my dear adjutant. What's that? A passport for Major Vieira of the Portuguese Cacadores. Do you remember it? Major Vieira. Sir Terence frowned thoughtfully. Suddenly he recollected. But that was countersigned by me at the request of Count Samovall, who represented himself a personal friend of the majors. So indeed he is. But the major in question was La Flesche, nevertheless. And Samovall knew this? Sir Terence was incredulous. Colonel Grant did not immediately answer the question. He preferred to continue his narrative. That night I had the false major arrested very quietly. I caused him to disappear for the present. His Lisbon friends believe him to be on his way to Messena, with the information they no doubt supplied him. Messena awaits his return at Salamanca, and will continue to wait. Thus when he fails to be seen or heard of, there will be a good deal of mystification on all sides, which is the proper state of mind in which to place your opponents. Lord Liverpool's figures, let me add, were not among the interesting notes found upon him, possibly because at that date they had not yet been obtained. And you say that Samovall was aware of the man's real identity? insisted Sir Terence, still incredulous, aware of it. Colonel Grant laughed shortly. Samovall is Susie's principal agent, the most dangerous man in Lisbon, and the most subtle. His sympathies are French through and through. Sir Terence stared at him in frank amazement. In utter unbelief. Oh, impossible! He ejaculated at last. I saw Samovall for the first time, said Colonel Grant by way of answer, in a porto at the time of Solt's occupation. He did not call himself Samovall just then, any more than I called myself Calcajon Grant. He was very active there in the French interest. I should indeed be more precise and say in Bonaparte's interest, for he was the man instrumental in disclosing to Solt the Bourbon conspiracy which was undermining the Marshal's army. You do not know, perhaps, that French sympathy runs in Samovall's family. You may not be aware that the Portuguese marquee of Alorna, who holds a command in the Emperor's army, and is at present with Messena at Salamanca, is Samovall's cousin. But, faltered Sir Terence, Count Samovall has been a regular visitor here for the past three months. So I understand, said Grant Cooley, if I had known it before I should have warned you. But as you are aware, I have been in Spain on other business. You realize the danger of having such a man, about the place, scraps of information. Oh, as to that, Sir Terence interrupted. I can assure you that none have fallen from my official table. Never be too sure, Sir Terence. Matters here must ever be under discussion. There are your secretaries, and the ladies, and Samovall has a great way with the women. But they know you may wager that he knows. They know nothing. That is a great deal, to say. Little odds and ends now, a hint at one time, a word dropped at another. These things picked up naturally by feminine curiosity, and retailed thoughtlessly under Samovall's charming suasion, and display of Britannic sympathies, and Samovall has the devil's own talent for bringing together the pieces of a puzzle. Take the lines now. You may have parted with no details, but mention of them will surely have been made in this household. However, he broke off abruptly. That is all past and done with. I am as sure as you are that any real indiscretions in this household are unimaginable, and so we may be confident that no harm has yet been done. But you will gather from what I have now told you, that Samovall's visits here are not a mere social waste of time, that he comes, acquires familiarity, and makes himself the friend of the family, with a very definite aim in view. He does not come again, said Sir Terence Rising. That is more than I should have ventured to suggest, but it is a very wise resolve. It will need tack to carry it out. Or Samovall is a man to be handled carefully. I'll handle him carefully, devil of fear, said Sir Terence. You can depend upon my tact. Colonel Grant Rose In this matter of Penalva, I will consider further, but I do not think there is anything to be done now. The main thing is to stop up the outlets through which information reaches the French. And that is my chief concern. How is the stripping of the country proceeding now? It was more active immediately after Susa left the government. But the last reports announce a slackening again. They are at work in that too, you see. Susa will not slumber, while there's vengeance and self-interest to keep him awake. And he held out his hand to Lee. You'll stay to luncheon, said Sir Terence. It is about to be served. You are very kind, Sir Terence. They descended to find luncheon served already in the open, under the Trellis Vine, in the party consisted of Lady Omoi, Miss Armitage, Captain Tremaine, Major Carothers, and Count Samovall, of whose presence this was the adjutant's first intimation. As a matter of fact, the Count had been at Monsanto for the past hour, the first half of which he had spent most agreeably on the terrace with the ladies. He had spoken so eulogistically of the genius of Lord Wellington and the valor of the British soldier, and particularly of the Irish soldier, that even Sylvia's instinctive distrust and dislike of him had been lulled a little for the moment. And they must prevail. He had exclaimed in a glow of enthusiasm his dark eyes flashing. It is inconceivable that they should ever yield to the French, although the odds of numbers may lie so heavily against them. Are the odds of numbers so heavy? said Lady Omoi in surprise, opening wide those almost childish eyes of hers. Alas! Anything from three to five to one! Ah! But why should we despond on that account? And his voice vibrated with renewed confidence. The country is a difficult one, easy to defend, and Lord Wellington's genius will have made the best of it. There are, for example, the fortifications at Taurus Vagress. Ah, yes, I have heard of them. Tell me about them, Count. Tell you about them, dear lady. Shall I carry perfumes to the rose? What can I tell you that you do not know so much better than myself? Indeed, I know nothing. Sir Terence is ridiculously secretive. He assured him with a little frown of petulance. She realized that her husband did not treat her as an intelligent being to be consulted upon these matters. She was his wife, and he had no right to keep secrets from her. In fact, she said so. Indeed, no. Sam of all agreed. And I find it hard to credit that it should be so. Then you forget, said Sylvia, that these secrets are not Sir Terence's own. They are the secrets of his office. Perhaps so, said the unabashed Sam of all. But if I were Sir Terence, I should desire, above all, to allay my wife's natural anxiety. For I am sure you must be anxious, dear Lady Omoy. Naturally, she agreed, whose anxieties never transcended the fit of her gowns or the suitability of a cofure. Sir Terence is like that. Incredible. The Count protested, and raised his dark eyes to heaven as if invoking its punishment upon so unnatural a husband. Do you tell me that you have never so much as seen the plans of these fortifications? The plans count, she almost laughed. Ah, he said, I dare swear, then, that you do not even know of their existence. He was jocular now. I am sure that she does not, said Sylvia, who instinctively felt that the conversation was following an undesirable course. Then you are wrong, she was assured. I saw them once a week ago in Sir Terence's room. Why, how would you know them if you saw them? Quote Sylvia, seeking to cover what might be an indiscretion. As they bore the name, Lines of Taurus Vagris, I remember. And this unsympathetic Sir Terence did not explain them to you, laughed Samovall. Indeed, he did not. In fact, I could swear that he locked them away from you at once. The Count continued on a jocular note. Not at once, but he certainly locked them away soon after, and whilst I was still there. In your place, then, said Samovall, ever on the same note of banter. I should be been tempted to steal the key. Not so easily done, she assured him. It never leaves his person. He wears it on a gold chain round his neck. What always? Always I assure you. Too bad, protested Samovall. Too bad indeed. But then, should you have done, Miss Armitage? It was difficult to imagine that he was drawing information from them. So bantering and frivolous was his manner. More difficult still to conceive, that he had obtained any. Yet you will observe that he had been placed in possession of two facts, that the plans of the Lines of Taurus Vagris were kept locked up in Sir Terence's own room, in the strong box, no doubt, and that Sir Terence always carried the key on a gold chain worn round his neck. Miss Armitage laughed. Whatever I might do I should not be guilty of prying into matters that my husband kept hidden. Then you admit a husband's right to keep matters hidden from his wife? Why not? Madame, Samovall bowed to her. Your future husband is to be envied on yet another count. And thus the conversation drifted, Samovall conceiving, that he had obtained all the information of which Lady Omoy was possessed, and satisfied that he had obtained all that for the moment he required. How to proceed now was a more difficult matter, to be very seriously considered. How to obtain from Sir Terence the key in question, and reach the plans so essential to Marshal Messena. He was at table with them, as you know, when Sir Terence and Colonel Grant arrived. He and the Colonel were presented to each other, and bowed with a gravity quite cordial on the part of Samovall, who was by far the more subtle dissimbler of the two. Each knew the other perfectly for what he was, yet each was in complete ignorance of the extent of the other's knowledge of himself, and certainly neither betrayed anything by his manner. At table the conversation was led naturally enough by Tremaine to Wellington's general order against doing. This was inevitable when you consider that it was a topic of conversation that morning at every table to which British officers sat down. Tremaine spoke of the measure in terms of warm commendation, thereby provoking a sharp disagreement from Samovall. The deep and almost instinctive hostility between these two men, which had often been revealed in momentary flashes, was such that it must invariably lead them to take opposing sides in any matter admitting of contention. In my opinion it is a most arbitrary and degrading enactment, said Samovall. I say so without hesitation, not withstanding my profound admiration and respect for Lord Wellington and all his measures. Degrading, echoed Grant looking across at him, in what can it be degrading, count, in that it reduces a gentleman to the level of the Claude, was the prompt answer. A gentleman must have his quarrels, however sweet his disposition. And a means must be afforded him of settling them. You can always thrash an impudent fellow, opine the adjutant. Thrage, echoed Samovall, his sensitive lip curled and disdain. To use your hands upon a man, he shuddered in sheer disgust. To one of my temperament it would be impossible, and men of my temperament are plentiful, I think. But if you were thrashed yourself, Tremaine asked him, and the light in his grey eyes almost hinted at a dark desire to be himself the executioner. Samovall's dark handsome eyes considered the captain steadily. To be thrashed myself, he questioned. My dear captain, the idea of having hands laid upon me, soiling me, brutalizing me, so nauseating, so repudiant, that I assure you I should not hesitate to shoot the man who did it, just as I should shoot any other wild beast that attacked me. Indeed the two instances are exactly parallel, and my country's court would uphold in such a case the justice of my conduct. Then you may thank God, said Omoy, that you are not under British jurisdiction. I do, snapped Samovall, to make an instant recovery, at least so far as the matter is concerned. And he elaborated, I assure you, sirs, it will be an evil day for the nobility of any country when its government enacts against the satisfaction that one gentleman has the right to demand from another who offends him. Isn't the conversation rather too flood-thirsty for a luncheon table? wondered Lady Omoy, and tactlessly she added, thinking with flattery to mollify Samovall, and cool his obvious heat. You are yourself such a famous swordsman count. And then, tramains dislike of the man, betrayed him into his deplorable phrase. At the present time Portugal is in urgent need of her famous swordsman to go against the French, and not to increase the disorders at home. A silence complete and ominous followed the rash words. And Samovall, white to the lips, pondered the imperturbable captain with a baleful eye. I think, he said at last, speaking slowly and softly, and picking his words with care. I think that is Unuindo. I should be relieved, Captain Tremaine. To hear you say that it is not. Tremaine was prompt to give him the assurance. No, Unuindo at all. A plain statement of fact. The Unuindo, I suggested, lay in the application of the phrase. Do you make it personal to myself? Of course not. Of course not, said Sir Terence, cutting in and speaking sharply. What an assumption! I am asking Captain Tremaine. The count insisted, with grim firmness, notwithstanding his deferential smile to Sir Terence. I spoke quite generally, sir, Tremaine assured him, partly under the suasion of Sir Terence's interposition, partly out of consideration for the ladies, who were looking scared. Of course, if you choose to take it to yourself, sir, that is a matter for your own discretion. I think, he added, also with a smile, that the ladies find the topic tiresome. Perhaps we may have the pleasure of continuing it, when they are no longer present. Oh, as you please, was the indifferent answer. Carothers, may I trouble you to pass the salt? Lady Ocalligan was complaining the other night of the abuse of salt in Portuguese cookery. It is an abuse I have never yet detected. I can't conceive Lady Ocalligan complaining of too much salt in anything, begad. Quoth Omoi with a laugh. If you had heard the story she told me about. Terence, my dear, his wife checked him, her flying brows raised, her stare rigid. Faith, we go from bad to worse, said Carothers. Will you try to improve the tone of the conversation, Miss Armitage? It stands in urgent need of it. With a general laugh, breaking the ice of the restraint that was in danger of settling about the table, a semblance of ease was restored, and this was maintained until the end of the repast. At last the ladies rose, and leaving the men at table they sauntered off towards the terrace. But under the archway Sylvia checked her cousin. Una, she said gravely, you had better call Captain Tremaine and take him away for the present. Una's eyes opened wide. Why, she inquired. Miss Armitage was almost impatient with her. Didn't you see? Resentment is only slumbering between those men. It will break out again now that we have left them unless you can get Captain Tremaine away. Una continued to look at her cousin, and then her mind fastening ever upon the trivial to the exclusion of the command. Her glance became arch. For whom is your concern? For Count Samavall or Ned? She inquired, and added with a laugh. You needn't answer me, it is Ned you are afraid for. I am certainly not afraid for him. Was the reply on a faint note of indignation. She had readen slightly. But I should not like to see Captain Tremaine or any other British officer embroiled in a duel. You forget Lord Wellington's order which they were discussing, and the consequences of infringing it. Lady Omoy became scared. You don't imagine, Sylvia spoke quickly. I am certain that unless you take Captain Tremaine away, and at once, there will be serious trouble. And now behold, Lady Omoy thrown into a state of alarm that bordered upon terror. She had more reason than Sylvia could dream. For reason she conceived than Sylvia herself, to wish to keep Captain Tremaine out of trouble just at present. Instantly agitatedly, she turned and called to him. Ned! Floated her silvery voice across the enclosed garden, and again, Ned, I want you at once, please. Captain Tremaine rose, Grant was talking briskly at the time, his intention being to cover Tremaine's retreat, which he himself desired. Count Samovall's smoldering eyes were upon the Captain, and full of menace. But he cannot be guilty of the rudeness of interrupting Grant, or of detaining Captain Tremaine when a lady called him. End of Chapter 10. CHAPTER 11. THE CHALLENGE Rebuke awaited Captain Tremaine at the hands of Lady Omoy, and it came as soon as they were alone together sauntering in the thicket of pine and cork oak on the slope of the hill below the terrace. How thoughtless of you, Ned, to provoke Count Samovall at such a time as this! Did I provoke him? I thought it was the Count himself who was provoking. Tremaine spoke lightly. But suppose anything were to happen to you? You know the man's dreadful reputation. Tremaine looked at her kindly. This apparent concern for himself touched him. My dear Una, I hope I can take care of myself, even against so formidable a fellow. And after all, a man must take his chances, a soldier especially. But what of Dick? She cried. Do you forget that he is depending entirely upon you? That if you should fail him he will be lost? And there was something akin to indignation in the protesting eyes she turned upon him. For a moment Tremaine was so amazed that he was at a loss for an answer. Then he smiled. And his inclination was to laugh outright. The frank admission that her concern, which he had fondly imagined to be for himself, was all for Dick, betrayed a state of mind that was entirely typical of Una. Never had she been able to command more than one point of view of any question, and that point of view invariably of her own interest. All her life she had been accustomed to sacrifices great and small, made by others on her own behalf, until she had come to look upon such sacrifices her absolute right. I am glad you reminded me, he said with an irony that never touched her. You may depend upon me to be discreetness itself, at least until after Dick has been safely shipped. Thank you, Ned, you are very good to me. They sauntered a little way in silence. Then? When does Captain Glenny sail? She asked him. Is it decided yet? Yes, I have just heard from him, that the telematches will put to sea on Sunday morning at two o'clock. At two o'clock in the morning, what an uncomfortable hour! Tides, as King Canute discovered, are beyond mortal control. The telematches goes out with the ebb, and after all, for our purposes surely no hour can be more suitable. If I come for Dick at midnight tomorrow, that will give us time to get him snugly aboard before she sails. I have made all arrangements with Glenny. He believes Dick to be what he has represented himself, one of Beersley's overseers named Jinkensen, who is a friend of mine, and who must be got out of the country quietly. Dick should thank his luck for a good deal. My chief anxiety was lest his presence here should be discovered by anyone. Beyond Bridget, not a soul knows that he is here, not even Sylvia. You have been the soul of discreteness. Haven't I? She purred, delighted to have him discover a virtue so unusual in her. Thereafter they discussed details, or rather, Tremaine discussed them. He would come up to Monsanto at twelve o'clock tomorrow night, in a curicle in which he would drive Dick down to the river, at a point where a boat would be waiting to take him out to the telematches. She must see that Dick was ready in time. The rest she could safely leave to him. He would come in through the official wing of the building. The guard would admit him without question, accustomed to seeing him come and go at all hours, nor would it be remarked that he was accompanied by a man in civilian dress when he departed. Dick was to be let down from her ladyship's balcony to the quadrangle, by a rope ladder with which Tremaine would come equipped, having procured it for the purpose from the telematches. She hung upon his arm, overwhelming him now with her gratitude. Her parasol, sheltering them both from the rays of the sun as they emerged from the thicket, into the meadowland in full view of the terrace, where Count Samavall and Sir Terrence were at that moment talking earnestly together. You will remember that Omoy had undertaken to provide that Count Samavall's visit to Monsanto should be discontinued. About this task he had gone with all the tact of which he had boasted himself master to Colquhoun Grant. You shall judge of the tact for yourself. No sooner had the Colonel left for Lisbon and Carithers to return to his work than finding himself alone with the Count. Sir Terrence considered the moment a choice one in which to broach the matter. I take it you are fond of walking, Count. Had been his singular opening move. They had left the table by now and were sauntering together on the terrace. I take it you are fond of walking, said Samavall, I detest it. And is that so? Well, well, of course it's not so very far from your place at Bispo. Not more than half a league, I should say. Just so, said Omoy, half a league there and half a league back. A league. It's nothing at all. Of course, yet for a gentleman who detests walking. It's a devilish long tramp for nothing. For nothing Samavall checked and looked at his host in faint surprise. Then he smiled very affably. But you must not say that, Sir Terrence. I assure you that the pleasure of seeing yourself and Lady Omoy cannot be spoken of as nothing. You are very good, Sir Terrence was the very quintessence of courtliness, of concern for the other. But if there were not that pleasure, then, of course, it would be different. Samavall was beginning to be slightly intrigued. That's it, said Sir Terrence. That's just what I'm meaning. Just what you're meaning. But my dear general, you are assuming circumstances which fortunately do not exist. Not at present perhaps, but they might. Again Samavall stood still and looked at Omoy. He found something in that bronzed, rugged face that was unusually sardonic. The blue eyes seemed to have become hard, and yet there were wrinkles about their corners suggestive of humor that might be mockery. The count stiffened, but beyond that he preserved his outward calm whilst confessing that he did not understand Sir Terrence's meaning. It's this way, said Sir Terrence. I've noticed that you're not looking so very well lately, Count. Really, you think that? The words were mechanical. The dark eyes continued to scrutinize that bronzed face suspiciously. I do, and it's sorry I am to see it. But I know what it is. It's this walking backwards and forwards between here and Bispo that's doing the mischief. Better give it up, Count. Better not come toiling up here anymore. It's not good for your health. Why man, you're as wide as a ghost this minute. He was indeed, having perceived at last the insult intended. To be denied the house at such a time was to checkmate his designs, to set a term upon his crafty and subtle espionage, precisely in this season when he hoped to reap its harvest. But his chagrin sprang not at all from that. His cold anger was purely personal. He was a gentleman of the fine flower, as he would have described himself, of the nobility of Portugal, and that a probably upstart Irish soldier, himself from Semeval's point of view, a guest in that country, should deny him his house, and choose such terms of ill-considered jocularity in which to do it, was in affront beyond all endurance. For a moment passion blinded him, and it was only by an effort that he recovered and kept his self-control. But keep it he did. You may trust your practised dualist for that when he comes face to face with the necessity to demand satisfaction. And soon the mist of passion clearing from his keen wits, he sought swiftly for a means to fasten the quarrel upon Sartarens, in Sartarens' own coin of galling mockery. Instantly he found it. Indeed it was not far to seek. Oh, Moy's jealousy, which was almost a byword, as we know, had been apparent more than once to Semeval. Remembering it now, it discovered to him at once Sartarens' most vulnerable spot, and cunningly Semeval proceeded to gall him there. A smile spread gradually over his white face, a smile of immeasurable malice. I am having a very interesting and instructive morning in this atmosphere of Irish borishness, said he, first Captain Tremaine. Now don't be after blaming old Ireland for Tremaine's shortcomings. Tremaine's just a clumsy-mannered Englishman. I am glad to know there is a distinction. Indeed, I might have perceived it for myself. In motives, of course, that distinction is great, indeed, and I hope that I am not slow to discover it, and in your case, to excuse it. I quite understand, and even sympathize with your feelings, General. I am glad of that now, said Sartarens, who had understood nothing of all this. Naturally, naturally, the Count pursued on a smooth level note of amiability, when a man, himself no longer young, commits the folly of taking a young and charming wife. He is to be forgiven when a natural anxiety drives him to links which in another might be resented. He bowed before the imperpling Sartarens. You're a damned coxcomb, it seems, was the answering roar. Of course you would assume it. It was to be expected. I condone it with the rest. And because I condone it, because I sympathize with what in a man of your age and temperament must amount to an affliction, I hasten to assure you upon my honor, that so far as I am concerned, there are no grounds for your anxiety. And who the devil asks for your assurances, it's stark mad yard as opposed that I ever needed them. Of course you must say that. The devil insisted, with a confident and superior smile, he shook his head, his expression one of amused sorrow. Sir Tarens, Sir Tarens, you have knocked at the wrong door. You are youthful, at least, in your impulsiveness, but you are surely as blind as old pantaloon in the comedy, or you would see where your industry would be better employed in shielding your wife's honor and your own. Goaded to fury, his blue eyes aflame now with passion, Sir Tarens considered the sleek and subtle gentleman before him. And it was in that moment that the Count subtled the sword to its finest heights. In a flash of inspiration, he perceived the advantages to be drawn by himself, from conducting this quarrel to extremes. This is not mere idle speculation, knowledge of the real motives actuating him rests upon the evidence of a letter which Samavall was to write that same evening to La Fletche, afterwards to be discovered, wherein he related what had passed, how deliberately he had steered the matter, and what he meant to do. His object was no longer the punishing oven afront. That would happen as a mere incident, a thing done as it were in passing. His real aim now was to obtain the keys of the adjutant strongbox, which never left Sir Tarens's person, and so become possessed of the plans of the lines of Tore Svedres. When you consider the light of this, the manner in which Samavall proceeded, now you will admire with me at once the opportunism and the subtlety of the man. You'll be after telling me exactly what you mean, Sir Tarens had said. It was in that moment that Tremaine and Lady Omoy came arm in arm into the open on the hillside, half a mile away, very close and confidential. They came most opportunely to the Count's need, and he flung out a hand to indicate them to Sir Tarens, a smile of pity on his lips. You need but to look, to take the answer for yourself, said he. Tarens looked and laughed, he knew the secret of Ned Tremaine's heart, and could laugh now with relish at that which hitherto had left him darkly suspicious. And who shall blame, Lady Omoy? Count Samavall pursued, a lady so charming and so courted must seek her consolation, for the almost unnatural union fate has imposed upon her. Captain Tremaine is of her own age, convenient to her hand, and for an Englishman not ill-looking. He smiled at Omoy with insolent compassion, and, Omoy, losing all his self-control, struck him, slapped him resounding me upon the cheek. You're a dirty liar, Samavall, a muckrake, he said he. Samavall stepped back, breathing hard, one cheek red, the other white. Yet by a miracle he still preserved his self-control. I have proved my courage too often, said he, to be under the necessity of killing you for this blow. Since my honour is safe, I will not take advantage of your overwrought condition. You'll take advantage of it whether you like it or not, blazed Sir Tarens at him. I mean you to take advantage of it. Do you think I'll suffer any man to cast a slurp on Lady Omoy? I'll be sending my friends to wait on you to day-count, and, by God, Tremaine shall be one of them. Thus did the hot-headed fellow deliver himself into the hands of his enemy, nor was he warned when he saw the sudden gleam in Samavall's dark eyes. Ha! said the Count. It was a little exclamation of wicked satisfaction. You are offering me a challenge, then. If I may make so bold, and as I have in mind to shoot you dead. Shoot, did you say? Samavall interrupted gently. I said shoot, and it shall be at ten paces, or across a handkerchief, or any damn distance you please. The Count shook his head. He sneered. I think not, not shoot. And he waved the notion aside with a hand white and slender as a woman's. That is to English, or to Irish, the pistol, I mean, appropriately a fool's weapon. And he explained himself, explained at last his extraordinary forbearance under a blow. If you think I have practiced the small sword every day of my life for ten years to suffer myself to be shot at like a rabbit in the end. Oh, really. He laughed aloud. You have challenged me. I think, Sir Terence, because I feared the predilection you have discovered. I was careful to wait until the challenge came from you. The choice of weapon lies, I think, with me. I shall instruct my friends to ask for swords. Sorry a difference will it make to me, said Sir Terence. Coming from a horse whip to a houtser, and then recollection descending like a cold hand upon him, chilled his hot rage, struck the fine Irish arrogance all out of him, and left him suddenly limp. My God! He said. It was almost a groan. He detained Samobol, who had already turned to depart. A moment count. He cried. I had forgotten. There is the general order. Lord Wellington's enactment. A quirk word, of course, said Samobol, who had never for a moment been oblivious of that enactment, and who had been carefully building upon it. But you should have considered it, before committing yourself so irrevocably. Sir Terence steadied himself. He recovered his treculence. Irrevocable or not, it will just have to be revocable. The meeting's impossible. I do not see the impossibility. I am not surprised you should shelter yourself behind an enactment. But you will remember this enactment does not imply to me who am not a soldier. But it applies to me, who am not only a soldier but the adjutant general here, the man chiefly responsible for seeing the order carried out. It would be a fine thing if I were the first to disregard it. I am afraid it is too late. You have disregarded it already, sir. How so? The letter of the law is against sending or receiving a challenge, I think. Omoy was distracted. Samobol, he said, drawing himself up, I will admit that I have been a fool. I will apologize to you for the blow and for the word that accompanied it. The apology would imply that my statement was a true one and that you recognized it, if you mean that. I mean nothing of that kind, dammit. I have a mind to horse whip you and leave it at that. You think I want to face a firing-party on your account? I don't think there is the remotest likelihood of any such contingency, replied Samobol. But Omoy went headlong on. In another thing, where will I be finding a friend to meet your friends, who will dare to act for me in view of that enactment? The count considered. He was grave now. Of course that is a difficulty, he admitted, as if he perceived it now for the first time. Under the circumstances, sir Terence, and entirely to accommodate you, I might consent to dispense with seconds. Sir Terence was horrified at the suggestion. You know that that is irregular, that a charge of murder would lie against the survivor. Oh, quite so. But it is for your own convenience that I suggest it, though I appreciate your considerate concern on the score of what may happen to me afterwards should it come to be known that I was your opponent. Afterwards after what? After I have killed you. And is it like that, cried Omoy? His countenance in flaming again, his mind casting all prudence to the winds. It followed, of course, that without further thought for anything but the satisfaction of his rage, sir Terence became as wax in the hands of Samobol's desires. Where do you suggest that we meet? He asked. Where is my place at Bispo? We should be private in the gardens there. As for time, the sooner the better. Though for secrecy's sake, we had better meet at night. Shall we say at midnight? But Terence would agree to none of this. Tonight is out of the question for me. I have an engagement that will keep me until late. Tomorrow night, if you will, I shall be at your service. And because he did not trust Samobol, he added, as Samobol himself had almost reckoned. But I should prefer not to come to Bispo. I might be seen going or returning. Since there are no such scruples on my side, I am ready to come to you, here, if you prefer it. It would suit me better. Then expect me promptly at midnight, to Marho, provided that you can arrange to admit me, without my being seen. You will perceive my reasons. Those gates will be closed, said Omoi, indicating the now gaping massive doors that closed the archway at night. But if you knock, I shall be waiting for you, and I will admit you by the wicket. Excellent, said Samobol, swobbly. Then until tomorrow night, general, he bowed with almost extravagant submission, and turning walked sharply away, energy and suppleness in every line of his slight figure, leaving deterrence to the unpleasant, almost desperate thoughts that reflection must usher in as his anger faded. End of chapter 11, read by Peter Strom in the Cusco Valley, Peru, on February 23, 2019. Chapter 12 of The Snare by Raphael Sabatini This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 The Duel It was a time of stress and even of temptation for Sir Terence. Honor and pride demanded that he should keep the appointment made with Samobol. Common sense urged him at all costs to avoid it. His frame of mind, you see, was not at all enviable. At moments he would consider his position as adjutant general. The enactment against dueling, the irregularity of the meeting arranged, and consequently the danger in which he stood on every score, and others he could think of nothing but the unpardonable affront that had been offered him, and the venomously insulting manner in which it had been offered, and his rage welled up to blot out every consideration, other than that of punishing Samobol. For two days in a night he was a sort of shuttlecock, tossed between these alternating moods, and he was still the same when he paced the quadrangle with bowed head and hands clasped behind him, awaiting Samobol at a few minutes before twelve on the following night. The windows that looked down from the four sides of that enclosed garden were all in darkness. The members of the household had withdrawn over an hour ago, and were asleep by now. The official quarters were closed. The rising moon had just mounted above the eastern wing, and its white light fell upon the upper half of the façade of the residential site. The quadrangle itself remained plunged in gloom. Sir Tarrant's pacing there was considering the only definite conclusion he had reached. If there were no way even now of avoiding this duel, at least it must remain secret. Therefore it could not take place here in the enclosed garden of his own quarters, as he had so rashly consented. It should be fought upon neutral ground, where the presence of the body of the slain would not call for explanations by the survivor. From distant Lisbon on the still air came softly the chimes of midnight, and immediately there was a sharper app upon the little door set in one of the massive gates that closed the archway. Sir Tarrant's went to open the wicket, and Samovol stepped quickly over the sill. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, a broad-brimmed hat obscured his face. Sir Tarrant's closed the door again. The two men bowed to each other in silence, and as Samovol's cloak fell open he produced a pair of dueling swords, swad together in a skin of leather. You are very punctual, sir, said Omoi. I hope I shall never be so discourteous as to keep an opponent waiting. It is a thing of which I have never yet been guilty, replied Samovol, with deadly smoothness in that reminder of his victorious past. He stepped forward and looked about the quadrangle. I am afraid the moon will occasion us some delay. He said it were perhaps better to wait some five or ten minutes, by then the light in here should have improved. We can devoid the delay by stepping out into the open, said Sir Tarrant's. Indeed it is what I had to suggest in any case. There are inconveniences here which you may have overlooked. Samovol, who had purposes to serve of which this duel was but a preliminary, was of a very different mind. We are quite private here, your household being a bed, he answered, whilst outside one can never be sure, even at this hour of avoiding witnesses and interruptions. Then again the turf is smooth as a table on that patch of lawn, and the ground well known to both of us. But I can assure you, is a very necessary condition in the dark, and one not to be found haphazard in the open. But there is yet another consideration, Sir. I prefer that we engage on neutral ground, so that the survivor shall not be called upon for explanations that might be demanded if we fought here. Even in the gloom Sir Tarrant's caught the flash of Samovol's white teeth as he smiled. You trouble yourself unnecessarily on my account, was the smooth and ironic answer. No one has seen me come, and no one is likely to see me depart. You may be sure that no one shall, by God, snapped a boy, stung by the sly insolence of the other's assurance. Shall we set to work then, Samovol invited? If you're set on dying here, I suppose I must be after humoring you, and make the best of it. As soon as you please, then. Oh, boy was very fierce. They stepped to the patch of lawn in the middle of the quadrangle, and there Samovol threw off altogether his cloak and hat. He was closely dressed in black, which in that light rendered him almost invisible. Sir Tarrant's less practiced and less calculating in these matters wore an undress uniform, the red coat of which showed grayish. Samovol observed this rather with contempt than with satisfaction in the advantage it afforded him. Then he removed the swathing from the swords, and crossing them presented the hilts to Sir Tarrant's. The adjutant took one, and the count retained the other, which he tested, thrashing the air with it so that it hummed like a whip. Done, however, he did not immediately fall on. In a few minutes the moon will be more obliging, he suggested. If you would prefer to wait. But it occurred to Sir Tarrant's that in the gloom the advantage might lie slightly with himself, since the other's superior swordplay would perhaps be partly neutralized. He cast a last look round at the dark windows. I find it light enough, he answered. Samovol's reply was instantaneous. On guard then, he cried, and on the words without giving Sir Tarrant so much as time to comply with the invitation, he whirled his point straight and deadly at the grayish outline of his opponent's body. But a ray of moonlight caught the blade, and its livid flash gave Sir Tarrant's warning of the thrust so treacherously delivered. He saved himself by leaping backwards, just saved himself with not an inch to spare, and threw up his blade to meet the thrust. Ye murderous villain! He snarled under his breath, as steel ground on steel, and he flung forward to the attack. But from the gloom came a little laugh to answer him, and his angry lunge was foiled by an enveloping movement that ended in a repost. With that they settled down to it. Sir Tarrant's in a rage upon which that assassin stroke had been fresh fuel. The count cool and unhurried, delaying until the moonlight should have crept a little farther, so as to enable him to make quite sure that his stroke when delivered should be final. Meanwhile he pressed Sir Tarrant's towards the side where the moonlight would strike first, until they were fighting close under the windows of the residential wing. Tarrant's with his back to them, Samovol facing them. It was fate that placed them so, the fate that watched over Sir Tarrant's even now when he felt his strength failing him, his sword arm turning to lead under the strain of an unwanted exercise. He knew himself beaten, realized the dexterous ease, the masterly economy of vigor, and the deadly sureness of his opponent's play. He knew that he was at the mercy of Samovol. He was even beginning to wonder why the count should delay to make an end of the situation of which he was so completely master. And then, quite suddenly, even as he was returning thanks, that he had taken the precaution of putting all his affairs in order, something happened. A light showed, it flared up suddenly, to be as suddenly extinguished, and it had its source in the window of Lady Omoe's dressing room, which Samovol was facing. That flash drawing off the count's eyes for one instant and leaving them blinded for another had revealed him clearly at the same time to Sir Tarrant's. Sir Tarrant's's blade darted in, driven by all that was left of his spent strength. In Samovol, his eyes unseen, in that moment had thumbled widely and failed to find the other's steel until he felt it sinking through his body, searing him from breast to back. His arms sank to his sides, quite nervously. He uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment. Almost instantly interrupted by a cough. He swayed there a moment. The cough increasing until it choked him. Then suddenly limp, he pitched forward upon his face, and lay clawing and twitching at Sir Tarrant's feet. Sir Tarrant himself, scarcely realizing what had taken place, for the whole thing had happened within the time of a couple of heartbeats. Stood quite still, amazed and awed in a half-crouching attitude, looking down at the body of the fallen man, and then from above. Ringing upon the deathly stillness, he caught a sibilant whisper. What was that? Sh! He stepped back softly and flattened himself instinctively against the wall, thence profoundly intrigued, and vaguely alarmed on several scores. He peered up at the window of his wife's room, the sound had come once the sudden light had come, which, as he now realized, had given him the victory in that unequal contest. Looking up at the balcony in whose shadow he stood concealed, he saw two figures there, his wife's and another's, and at the same time he caught sight of something black that dangled from the narrow balcony, and peered more closely to discover a rope ladder. He felt his skin ruffening, bristling like a dog's. He was conscious of being cold from head to foot, as if the flow of his blood had been suddenly arrested, and a sense of sickness overcame him, and then to turn that horrible doubt of his into still more horrible certainty came a man's voice, subdued, yet not so subdued, but that he recognized it for Ned Tremains. There's someone laying there. I can make out the figure. Don't go down. For pity's sake, come back. Come back and wait, Ned. If anyone should come and find you, we shall be ruined." Thus hoarsely whispering, vibrating with terror, the voice of his wife reached Omoi to confirm him, the unsuspecting, blind, cuckold, that Samovol had dubbed him to his face, for which Samovol, warning the guilty pair with his last breath, even as he had earlier, so mockingly warns her terence, had coughed up his soul on the turf of that enclosed garden. Crouching there for a moment longer, a man bereft of movement and of reason stood Omoi, conscious only of pain, in an agony of mind and heart that at one and the same time froze his blood and drew the sweat from his brow. Then he was for stepping out into the open, and giving flow to the rage and surging violence that followed, calling down the man who had dishonored him and slaying him there under the eyes of that troll who had brought him to this shame. But he controlled the impulse, or else Satan controlled it for him. That way, whispered the tempter, was too straight and simple. He must think. He must have time to readjust his mind to the horrible circumstances so suddenly revealed. Very softly and silently, keeping well within the shadow of the wall, he sidled to the door which he had left a jar. Soundlessly he pushed it open, passed in, and as soundlessly closed it again. For a moment he stood leaning heavily against its timbers, his breath coming in short panting sobs. Then he steadied himself, and turning, made his way down the corridor to the little study which had been fitted up for him in the residential wing. And where sometimes he worked at night. He had been riding there that evening ever since dinner, and he had quitted the room only to go to his assination with samovall, leaving the lamp burning on the open desk. He opened the door, but before passing in he paused a moment straining his ears to listen for sounds overhead. His eyes, glancing up and down, were arrested by a thin blade of light under a door at the end of the corridor. It was the door of the butler's pantry, and the line of light announced that Mullins had not yet gone to bed. At once Sartarens understood that, knowing him to be at work, the old servant had himself remained below in case his master should want anything before retiring. Continuing to move without noise, Sartarens entered his study, closed the door and crossed to his desk. Wearily he dropped into the chair that stood before it, his face drawn and ghastly, his smoldering eyes staring vacantly ahead. On the desk before him, lay the letters that he had spent the past hours in writing, one to his wife, another to Tremaine, another to his brother in England, another to his brother in Ireland, and several others connected with his official duties, making provision for their uninterrupted continuance in the event of his not surviving the encounter. Now it happened that amongst the latter there was one that was destined hereafter to play a considerable part. It was a note for the Commissary-General upon a matter that demanded immediate attention, and the only one of all those letters that need now survive. It was marked most urgent, and had been left by him for delivery, first thing in the morning. He pulled open a drawer, and swept into it all the letters he had written save that one. He locked that drawer, then unlocked another, and took thence a case of pistols. With shaking hands he lifted out one of the weapons to examine it. And all the while, of course, his thoughts were upon his wife and Tremaine. He was considering how well-founded had been his every twinge of jealousy, how wasted, how senseless the reactions of shame that had followed them, how insensate his trust and Tremaine's honesty, and above all, with that crafty treacherous subtlety Tremaine had drawn a red herring across the trail of his suspicions by pretending to an unutterable passion for Sylvia-Armitage. It was perhaps that piece of duplicity worthy, he thought, of the Ascariot himself, that Galds or Terence now most sorely, that in the memory of his own silly credulity. He had been such a ready dupe, how those two together must have laughed at him. Oh, Tremaine had been very subtle. He had been the friend, the quasi-brother, parading his affection for the Butler family to excuse the familiarities with Lady Omoy, which he had permitted himself under Sir Terence's very eyes. Omoy thought of them as he had seen them in the garden on the night of Redondo's ball, remembering the air of transparent honesty by which that damned hypocrite, when discovered, had deflected his just resentment. Oh, there was no doubt that the treacherous black guard had been subtle. But by God, subtlety should be repaid with subtlety. He would deal with Tremaine as cruelly as Tremaine had dealt with him, and his wanton wife, too, should be repaid in kind. He beheld the way clear. In a flash of wicked inspiration he put back the pistol, slapped down the lid of the box and replaced it in its drawer. He rose, took up the letter to the Commissary-General, stepped briskly to the door, and pulled it open. Mullen's? he called sharply. Are you there, Mullen's? Came the sound of a scraping chair, and instantly that door at the end of the corridor was thrown open, and Mullen stood silhouetted against the light behind him. A moment he stood there then came forward. You called Sir Terence? Yes. Sir Terence's voice was miraculously calm. His back was to the light and his face in shadow, so that his drawn-haggered look was not perceptible to the butler. I am going to bed, but first I want you to step across to the Sergeant of the Guard with this letter for the Commissary-General, tell him that it is of the utmost importance, and ask him to arrange to have it taken into Lisbon first thing in the morning. Mullen's bowed, venerable as an arch-deacon in aspect and bearing, as he received the letter from his master. Certainly Sir Terence? As he departed Sir Terence turned and slowly paced back to his desk, leaving the door open. His eyes had narrowed. There was a cruel and almost evil smile on his lips. Of the generous, good-humored nature imprinted upon his face, every sign had vanished. His countenance was a mask of ferocity, restrained by intelligence, cold and calculating. Oh, he would pay the score that lay between himself and those two who had betrayed him. They should receive treachery for treachery, mockery for mockery, and for dishonored death. They had deemed him an old fool. What was the expression that Samuel all had used? Pantaloon in the comedy. Well, well, he had been Pantaloon in the comedy so far. But now they should find him Pantaloon in the tragedy. Nay, not Pantaloon at all. But Politionel, the sinister jester, the cynical clown who laughs and murdering, and an anguished silencer they bear the punishment he would meet out to them, or else in no less anguished speech themselves proclaim their own dastardy to the world. His wife he beheld now in a new light. It was out of vanity and greed that she had married him, because of the position in the world that he could give her. Having done so, at least she might have kept faith. She might have been honest and abided by the bargain. If she had not done so, it was because honesty was beyond her shallow nature. He should have seen before what he now saw so clearly. He should have known her for a lovely empty husk, a silly fluttering butterfly, a toy, a thing of vanities, emotions, and nothing else. Thus, Sir Terence, cursing the day that he had mated with a fool, thus Sir Terence, whilst he stood there waiting for the outcry from Mullins that should proclaim the discovery of the body, and afford him a pretext for having the house searched for the slayer, nor had he long to wait. Sir Terence, Sir Terence, for God's sake, Sir Terence! He heard the voice of his old servant, came the loud crash of the door thrust back until it struck the wall and quick steps along the passage. Sir Terence stepped out to meet him. Why, what the devil! He was beginning in his bluffed normal tones, when the servant, showing a white-scared face, cut him short. A terrible thing, Sir Terence, O the Saint's protectus! A dreadful thing! This way, sir, there's a man killed. Count Semeval, I think it is. What where? Altyonder in the quadrangle, sir. But, Sir Terence checked, Count Semeval, did you say? Impossible! And he went out quickly, followed by the butler. In the quadrangle he checked. In the few minutes that were sped since he had left the place, the moon had overtopped the roof of the opposite wing, so that the full upon the enclosed garden fell, now its white light, illuminine and revealing. There lay the black still form of Semeval supine, his white face staring up into the heavens, and beside him knelt Tremaine, whilst in the balcony above, leaned her ladyship. The rope ladder, Sir Terence's swift glance observed, had disappeared. He halted in his advance, standing at gaze a moment. He had hardly expected so much. He had conceived the plan of causing the house to be searched immediately upon Mullen's discovery of the body. But Tremaine's rashness and adventuring down in this fashion spared him even that necessity. True, it set up other difficulties, but he was not sure that the matter would not be infinitely more interesting thus. He stepped forward, and came to a standstill between the two, his dead enemy and his living one. End of Chapter 12. Recorded by Peter Strom in the Cusco Valley, Peru, on February 23rd, 2019 Chapter 13 of the Snare by Raphael Sabatini. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13. Policinelle. Why Ned? he asked gravely. What has happened? It is Semeval was Tremaine's quiet answer. He is quite dead. He stood up as he spoke, and Sir Terence observed, with terrible inward mirth, that his tone had the frank and honest ring, his bearing the imperturbable ease which more than once before had imposed upon him as the outward signs of an easy conscience. This secretary, of his, was a cool scoundrel. Semeval, is it? said Sir Terence, and went down on one knee beside the body to make a perfunctory examination. Then he looked up at the captain. And how did this happen? Happen, echoed Tremaine, realizing that the question was being addressed particularly to himself. That is what I am wondering. I found him here in this condition. Oh, you found him here in this condition? Curious. Over his shoulder he spoke to the butler. Mullins, you had better call the guard. He picked up the slender weapon that lay beside Semeval. A dueling sword. Then he looked searchingly about him, until his eyes caught the gleam of the other blade near the wall, where himself he had dropped it. Ah, he said, and went to pick it up. Very odd. He looked up at the balcony over the parapet of which his wife was leaning. Did you see anything, my dear? She asked, and neither Tremaine nor she detected the faint note of wicked mockery in the question. There was a moment's pause before she answered him falteringly. No, no, I saw nothing. Sir Terence's straining ears caught no faintest sound of the voice that had prompted her urgently from behind the curtained windows. How long have you been there? He asked her. Hey, a moment only. She replied again after a pause. Ah, I thought I heard a cry, and I came to see what had happened. Her voice shook with terror. What she beheld would have been quite enough to account for that. The guard filed in through the doors from the official quarters. A sergeant with a halberd in one hand, and a lantern in the other, followed by four men, and lastly by Mullins. They halted, and came to attention before Sir Terence. And almost at the same moment, there was a sharp rattling knock on the wicked, and the great closed gates through which Samavall had entered. Startled, but without showing any signs of it, Sir Terence bade Mullins go open, and in a general silence all waited to see who it was that came. A tall man, bowing his shoulders to pass under the low lintel of that narrow door, stepped over the sill and into the courtyard. He wore a cocked hat, and as his great cavalry cloak fell open, the yellow rays of the sergeant's lantern gleamed faintly on a British uniform, presently as he advanced into the quadrangle. He disclosed the aquiline features of Calchihon Grant. Good evening, General! Good evening, Tremaine! He greeted one and the other. Then his eyes fell upon the body lying between them. Samavall, eh? So I am not mistaken in seeking him here. I have had him under very close observation, drink the past day or two. And when one of my men brought me word to-night that he had left his place at Bispo on foot and alone, going along the upper Alcantara Road, if I had a notion that he might be coming to Monsanto, and I followed. But I hardly expected to find this. How has it happened? That is what I was just asking Tremaine, replied Sir Terence. Mullins discovered him here, quite by chance, with the body. Oh! said Grant, and turned to the captain. Was it you, then? I interrupted Tremaine with sudden violence. He seemed now to become aware for the first time of the gravity of his position. Certainly not, Colonel Grant. I heard a cry, and I came out to see what it was. I found Samavall here, already dead. I see, said Grant. You were with Sir Terence, then, when this? Nay, Sir Terence interrupted. I have been alone since dinner, clearing up some arrears of work. I was in my study there when Mullins called me to tell me what he had discovered. It looks as if there had been a duel. Look at these swords! Then he turned to his secretary. I think, Captain Tremaine, he said gravely, that you had better report yourself under arrest to your Colonel. Tremaine stiffened suddenly. Report myself under arrest, he cried. My God, Sir Terence, you don't believe that I—Sir Terence interrupted him. The voice in which he spoke was stern, almost sad, but his eyes gleamed with fiendish mockery the while. It was Pallicinelle that spoke, Pallicinelle that mocks what time he slays. What were you doing here? He asked. And it was like moving the check-making piece. Tremaine stood stricken and silent. He cast a desperate upward glance at the balcony overhead. The answer was so easy, but it would entail delivering Richard Butler to his death. Colonel Grant, following his upward glance, beheld Lady O'Moy for the first time. He bowed, swept off his cocked hat. And— Perhaps per ladyship, he suggested to Sir Terence, may have seen something. I have already asked her, replied O'Moy, and then she herself was feverishly assuring Colonel Grant that she had seen nothing at all, that she had heard a cry, and had come out onto the balcony to see what was happening. And was Captain Tremaine here when you came out? Asked O'Moy, the deadly jester. Yes, she faltered, I was only a moment or two before yourself. You see, said Sir Terence heavily to Grant, and Grant with pursed lips nodded. His eyes moved from O'Moy to Tremaine. But Sir Terence cried Tremaine, I give you my word, I swear to you that I know absolutely nothing of how Samaville met his death. What were you doing here? O'Moy asked again, and this time the sinister, menacing note of derision vibrated clearly in the question. Tremaine for the first time in his honest, upright life found himself deliberately choosing between truth and falsehood. The truth would clear him, since with that truth he would produce witnesses to it, establishing his movements completely. But the truth would send a man to his death, and so for the sake of that man's life he was driven into falsehood. I was on my way to see you, he said. At midnight, cried Sir Terence on a note of grim doubt. To what purpose? Really Sir Terence, if my word is not sufficient, I refuse to submit to cross-examination. Sir Terence turned to the sergeant of the guard. How long is it, says Captain Tremaine, arrived? He asked. The sergeant stood to attention. Captain Tremaine, sir, arrived rather more than half an hour ago. He came in a curicle, which is still waiting at the gates. Half an hour ago, eh? Said Sir Terence, and from Colquhoun Grand there was a sharp and audible intake of breath, expressive either of understanding or surprise, or both. The adjutant looked at Tremaine again. As my questions seem only to entangle you further, he said, I think you had better do as I suggest without more protests. Report yourself under arrest to Colonel Fletcher in the morning, sir. Still Tremaine hesitated for a moment. Then drawing himself up, he saluted curtly. Very well, sir, he replied. Sir Terence cried her ladyship from above. Ah, said Sir Terence, and he looked up. You would say, he encouraged her, but she had broken off abruptly, checked again, although none below could guess it, by the one behind who prompted her. Couldn't you, couldn't you wait? She was faltering, compelled to it by his question. Certainly, but for what? Quote he grimly sardonic. Wait until you have some explanation. She concluded lamely. That will be the business of the court-martial, he answered. My duty is quite clear and simple. I think you needn't wait, Captain Tremaine. And so, without another word, Tremaine turned and departed. The soldiers, in compliance with the short command issued by Sir Terence, took up the body and bore it away to a room in the official quarters, and in their wake went Colonel Grant. After taking his leave of Sir Terence, her ladyship vanished from the balcony and closed her windows. And finally, Sir Terence, followed by Mullins, slowly, with bowed head and dragging steps, re-entered the house. In the quadrangle, flooded now with a cold white light at the moon, all was peace once more. Sir Terence turned into his study, sank into the chair by his desk, and sat there awhile, staring into vacancy, a diabolical smile upon his handsome, mobile mouth. Gradually the smile faded, and horror overspread his face. Finally he flung himself forward, and buried his head in his arms. There were steps in the hall outside, a quick mutter of voices, and then the door of his study was flung open, and Miss Armitage came sharply to rouse him. Sir Terence, what has happened to Captain Tremaine? He sat up stiffly, as she sped across the room to him. She was wrapped in a blue-quilted bed-gown, her dark hair of hung in two heavy plates, and her bare feet had been hastily thrust into slippers. Sir Terence looked at her with eyes that were dull and heavy, and that yet seemed to search her white, startled face. She set a hand on his shoulder, and looked down into his ravaged, haggard countenance. He seemed suddenly to have been stricken into an old man. Mullins has just told me that Captain Tremaine has been ordered under arrest for killing Count Sammel. Is it true, is it true? she demanded wildly. It is true, he answered her, and there was a heavy, sneering curl on his upper lip. But she looked as if she would stifle. She sank to her knees beside him and caught his hand in both her own that were trembling. Oh, you can't believe it! Captain Tremaine is not the man to do a murder. The evidence points to a duel, he answered dolly. A duel? she looked at him and then remembering what had passed that morning between Tremaine and Sammelville, remembering, too, Lord Wellington's edict. Oh, God! she gasped. Why did you let them take him? They didn't take him, I ordered him under arrest. He will report himself to Colonel Fletcher in the morning. You ordered him, you, you, his friend. Anger, scorn, reproach, and sorrow, all blending in her voice bore him a clear message. He looked down at her most closely and gradually compassion crept into his face. He set his hands on her shoulders. She's suffering it passively, insensibly. You care for him, Sylvia? He said, between inquiry and wonder. Well, well, we are both fools together, child. The man is a dastard, a blackguard, a Judas. To be repaid with betrayal for betrayal. Forget him, girl. Believe me, he isn't worth a thought. Terrence, she looked in her turn into that distorted face. Are you mad? She asked him. Very nearly. He answered, with a laugh that was horrible to hear. She drew back and away from him, bewildered and horrified. Slowly she rose to her feet. She controlled with difficulty the deep emotion swaying her. Tell me, she said slowly, speaking with obvious effort. What will they do to Captain Tremaine? What will they do to him? He looked at her, he was smiling. They will shoot him, of course. And you wish it? She denounced him in a whisper of horror. Above all things, he answered. A more poetic justice never overtook a blackguard. Why do you call him that? What do you mean? I will tell you afterwards, after they have shot him, unless the truth comes out before. What truth do you mean? The truth of how Sam of all came by his death? Oh no, that matter is quite clear. The evidence complete. I mean, oh I will tell you afterwards what I mean. It may help you bear your trouble, thankfully. She approached him again. Won't you tell me now? She begged him. No. He answered rising and speaking with finality. Afterwards if necessary, afterwards, and now get back to bed, child, and forget the fellow. I swear to you that he isn't worth a thought. Later I shall hope to prove it to you. That you never will. She told him fiercely. He laughed, and again his laugh was harsh and terrible in its bitter mockery. Yet another trusting fool, he cried, the world is full of them. It is made up of them with just a sprinkling of knaves to batten on their folly. Go to bed, Sylvia, and pray for understanding of men. It is a possession beyond riches. I think you are more in need of it than I am, she told him, standing by the door. Of course you do. You trust, which is why you are a fool. Trust, he said speaking the very language of Poliscianeli, is the livery of fools. She went without answering him, and toiled upstairs with dragging feet. She paused a moment in the corridor above, outside Una's door. She was in such need of communion with someone that for a moment she thought of going in. As she knew beforehand the greeting that would await her, the empty platitudes, the obvious small change of verbiage which her ladyship would dole out. The very thought of it restrained her, and so she passed on to her own room, and a sleepless night in which to piece together the puzzle, which the situation offered her. The amazing enigma of Sir Terence's seeming access of insanity. The only conclusion that she reached was that intertwined with the death of Samovol, there was some other circumstance which had aroused in the adjutant an unreasoning hatred of his friend, converting him into Tremaine's bitterest enemy, intent as he had confessed, upon seeing him shot for that night's work. And because she knew them both for men of honour, above all, the enigma was immeasurably deepened. Had she but obeyed the transient impulse to seek Lady Omoi, she might have discovered all the truth at once, for she would have come upon her ladyship in a frame of mind almost as distraught as her own, and she might, had she penetrated to the dressing room where her ladyship was, have come upon Richard Butler at the same time. Now in few of what had happened her ladyship ever impulsive was all for going there and then to her husband to confess the whole truth, without pausing to reflect upon the consequences to other than Ned Tremaine. As you know, it was beyond her to see a thing from two points of view at one at the same time. It was also beyond her brother, the failing, as I think I have told you, was a family one, and her brother saw this matter only from the point of view of his own safety. A single word to Terrence, he had told her, putting his back to the door of the dressing room to bar her intended egress, and you realize that it will be a court-martial and a firing-party for me. That warning effectively checked her, yet certain stirrings of conscious made her think of the man who had imperiled himself, for her sake and her brother's. But, Dick, what is to become of Ned? She had asked him. Oh, Ned will be all right. What is the evidence against him, after all? Men are not shot for things they haven't done. Justice will out, you know, leave Ned to shifter himself for the present. Anyhow, his danger isn't great, nor is it immediate, and mine is. Helplessly distraught, she sank to an ottoman. The night had been a very trying one for her ladyship. She gave way to tears. It is all your fault, Dick, she reproached him. Naturally you would blame me, he said with resignation, the complete martyr. If only you had been ready at the time, as he told you to be, there would have been no delays and you would have gotten away before any of this happened. Was it my fault that I should have reopened my wound, bad luck to it, in attempting to get down that damned ladder? He asked her. Is it my fault that I am neither an ape nor an acrobat? Your main should have come up at once to assist me, instead of waiting until he had come up to help me bandage my leg again. Then time would not have been lost, and very likely, my life with it. He came to a gloomy conclusion. Your life, what do you mean, Dick? Just that, what are my chances of getting away now? He asked her. Was there ever such infernal luck as mine, that telematches will sail without me, and the only man who could and would have helped me to get out of this damned country is under arrest. It's clear I shall have to shift for myself again, and I can't even do that for a day or two with my leg in this state. I shall have to go back into that stuffy store cupboard of yours till God knows when. He lost all self-control at the prospect and broke into implications of his luck. She attempted to soothe him, but he wasn't easy to soothe. Even then, he grumbled on, you have so little sense that you want to run straight off to Terence and explain to him what Tremaine was doing here. You might at least have the grace to wait until I am off the premises and give me the mercy of a start before you set the dogs on my trail. Oh, Dick, Dick, you are so cruel, she protested. How can you say such things to me, whose only thought is for you to save you? Even don't talk any more about telling Terence, he replied. I won't, Dick, I won't. She drew him down beside her on the ottoman, and her finger smoothed his rather tumbled red hair, just as her words attempted to smooth the ruffles in his spirit. You know I didn't realize, or I should have thought of it even. I was so concerned for Ned for the moment. Don't. I tell you there's not the need, he assured her. Ned will be safe enough, defile a doubt. It's for you to keep to what you told them from the balcony, that you heard a cry, went out to see what was happening, and saw Tremaine there bending over the body. Not a word more, and not a word less, or it will be all over with me.