It had a message to bring to him. A half-forgotten message—and—yes!—it came out of the East, with a great whirring of wings.
He shuddered. He sheathed the blade, was about to put it back amongst the trophies on the wall.
Then he reconsidered, and slipped it into the deep inside pocket of his coat, left the lumber room, and returned to the house.
He found it in a turmoil, with Mr. Preserved Higgins in the entrance hall, well within hearing of the servants’ quarters, laying down the law to the earl:
“Harsk me to keep mum, do you, because o’ the scandal, yer lordship, wot? Well—it ain’t a go, old ’un! I was cheated. Cheated at cards—so ’elp me! By that there lousy son o’ yours with ’is bleedin’ airs and you-be-damned gryces! Gawd stroike me pink— but London’s goin’ to ’ear about these ’ere goin’s-on!”
And London did.
That night, after his return to town, Mr. Preserved Higgins told the tale to his favorite barmaid at the downstairs Criterion. She repeated it to a junior captain in the Blues. He told his mother who told the old Duchess of Clonmonnell who told all the world.
Mayfair and Belgravia and Marlborough House and Hydepark Corner cackled and jeered.
“I say, Vic dear, have you heard about young Hector Wade?”
“Rather! Disgraceful, don’t you think, darling Millicent?”
“Rather rough on his nibs, the old earl.” This from a subaltern in the Buffs. “Stony down to his
