Richard’s feelings may be imagined. Lord John had been singularly unimpressed by anything beyond the humour of the situation. That, however, had struck him most forcibly, and he had burst out into a fit of laughter that had brought a lump into Richard’s throat, and a fresh ache into his heart.

Upon pressure John had given his brother the address of the inn, “in case of accidents,” and told him to ask for “Sir Anthony Ferndale” if ever he should need him. Then with one hearty handshake, he had galloped off into the darkness.⁠ ⁠…

The lawyer stopped his restless pacing to listen. Down the passage was coming the tap-tap of high heels on the wooden floor, accompanied by a slight rustle as of stiff silks.

The little man tugged suddenly at his cravat. Supposing⁠—supposing debonair Lord John was no longer debonair? Supposing⁠—he dared not suppose anything. Nervously he drew a roll of parchment from his pocket and stood fingering it.