Lord Hartfield did not arrive at Euston Square until near eleven o’clock at night. A hansom deposited him at the entrance to the Albany just as the clock of St. James’s Church chimed the hour. He found only Maulevrier’s valet. His lordship had waited indoors all the evening, and had only gone out a quarter of an hour ago. He had gone to the Cerberus, and begged that Lord Hartfield would be kind enough to follow him there.

Lord Hartfield was not fond of the Cerberus, and indeed deemed that lively place of rendezvous a very dangerous sphere for his friend Maulevrier; but in the face of Maulevrier’s telegram there was no time to be lost, so he walked across Piccadilly and down St. James’s Street to the fashionable little club, where the men were dropping in after the theatres and dinners, and where sheafs of bank notes were being exchanged for those various coloured counters which represented divers values, from the respectable ‘pony’ to the modest ‘chip.’

Maulevrier was in the first room Hartfield looked into, standing behind some men who were playing.

‘That’s something like friendship,’ he exclaimed, when he saw Lord Hartfield, and then he hooked his arm through his friend’s, and led him off to the dining room.

‘Come and have some supper, old fellow,’ he said, ‘and I can tell you my troubles while you are eating it. James, bring us a grill, and a lobster, and a bottle of Mumms, number 27, you know.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Sorry to find you in this den, Maulevrier,’ said Lord Hartfield.

‘Haven’t touched a card. Haven’t done half an hour’s punting this season. But it’s a kind of habit with me to wander in here now and then. I know so many of the members. One poor devil lost nine thousand one night last week. Bather rough upon him, wasn’t it? All ready money at this shop, don’t you know.’

‘Thank God, I know nothing about it. And now, Maulevrier, what is wrong, and with whom?’

‘Everything is wrong, and with my sister Lesbia.’

‘Good heavens! what do you mean?’

‘Only this, that there is a fellow after her whose very name means ruin to women — a Spanish–American adventurer — reckless, handsome, a gambler, seducer, duellest, dare-devil. The man she is to marry seems to have neither nous nor spunk to defend her. Everybody at Goodwood saw the game that was being played, everybody at Cowes is watching the cards, betting on the result. Yes, great God, the men at the Squadron Club are staking their money upon my sister’s character — even monkeys that she bolts with Montesma — five to three against the marriage with Smithson ever coming off.’

‘Is this true.’

‘It is as true as your marriage with Molly, as true as your loyalty to me. I was told of it all this morning at the Haute Gomme by a man I can rely upon, a really good fellow, who would not leave me in the dark about my sister’s danger when all the smoking-rooms in Pall Mall were sniggering about it. My first impulse was to take the train for Cowes; but then I knew if I went alone I should let my temper get the better of me. I should knock somebody down — throw somebody out of the window — make a devil of a scene. And this would be fatal for Lesbia. I wanted your counsel, your cool head, your steady common-sense. “Not a step forward without Jack,” I said to myself, so I bolted off and sent that telegram. It relieved my feeling a little, but I’ve had a wretched day.’

‘Waiter, bring me a Bradshaw, or an A B C,’ said Lord Hartfield.

He had eaten nothing but a biscuit since breakfast, but he was ready to go off at once, supperless, if there were a train to carry him. Unluckily there was no train. The mail had started. Nothing till seven o’clock next morning.

‘Eat your supper, old fellow,’ said Maulevrier. ‘After all, the danger may not be so desperate as I fancied this morning. Slander is the favourite amusement of the age we live in. We must allow a margin for exaggeration.’

‘A very liberal margin,’ answered Hartfield. ‘No doubt the man who warned you meant honestly, but this scandal may have grown out of the merest trifles. The feebleness of the Masher’s brain is only exceeded by the foulness of the Masher’s tongue. I daresay this rumour about Lady Lesbia has its beginning and end among the Masher species.’

‘I hope so, but — I have seen those two together — I met them at Victoria one evening after Goodwood. Old Kirkbank was shuffling on ahead, carrying Smithson with her, absorbing his attention by fussification about her carriage. Lesbia and that Cuban devil were in the rear. They looked as if they had all the world to themselves. Faust and Marguerite in the garden were not in it for the expression of intense absorbing feeling compared with those two. I’m not an intellectual party, but I know something of human nature, and I know when a man and woman are in love with each other. It is one of the things that never has been, that never can be hidden.’

‘And you say this Montesma is a dangerous man?’

‘Deadly.’

‘Well, we must lose no time. When we are on the spot it will be easy to find out the truth; and it will be your duty, if there be danger, to warn Lesbia and her future husband.

‘I would much rather shoot the Cuban,’ said Maulevrier. ‘I never knew much good come of a warning in such a case: it generally precipitates matters. If I could play écarté with him at the club, find him sporting an extra king, throw my cards in his face, and accept his challenge for an exchange of shots on the sands beyond Cherbourg — there would be something like satisfaction’

‘You say the man is a gambler?’

‘Report says something worse of him. Report says he is a cheat.’

‘We must not be dependent upon society gossip,’ replied Lord Hartfield. ‘I have an idea, Maulevrier. The more we know about this man — Montesma, I think you called him ——’

‘Gomez de Montesma.’

‘The more fully we are acquainted with Don Gomez de Montesma’s antecedents the better we shall be able to cope with him, if we come to handy-grips. It’s too late to start for Cowes, but it is not too late to do something. Fitzpatrick, the political-economist, spent a quarter of a century in South America. He is a very old friend — knew my father — and I can venture to knock at his door after midnight — all the more as I know ............