Sir Mortimer's frown grew more ominous, the flush deepened in his cheeks, and his powerful right hand clenched itself, then he laughed.
"Egad! you have plenty of assurance, sir. It is just possible that you may have ridden—now and then?"
"Sufficiently to know one end of a horse from the other, sir," retorted Barnabas, his smile rather grim.
"And you are willing to bet a thousand guineas that you ride third among all the best riders in the three kingdoms, are you?"
"No, sir," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "the bet was a rash one,
—I humbly beg leave to withdraw it. Instead, I will bet five
thousand guineas that I pass the winning-post before you do, Sir
Mortimer."
Carnaby's smile vanished, and he stared up at calm-eyed Barnabas in open-mouthed astonishment.
"You're not mad, are you?" he demanded at last, his red under-lip curling.
"Sir," said Barnabas, taking out his memorandum, "it is now your turn to answer. Do you take my bet?"
"Take it!" cried Sir Mortimer fiercely, "yes! I'll double it—make it ten thousand guineas, sir!"
"Fifteen if you wish," said Barnabas, his pencil poised.
"No, by God! but I'll add another five and make it an even twenty thousand!"
"May I suggest you double instead, and make it thirty?" inquired
Barnabas.
"Ha!—may I venture to ask how much higher you are prepared to go?"
"Why, sir," said Barnabas thoughtfully, "I have some odd six hundred thousand pounds, and I am prepared to risk—a half."
"Vastly fine, sir!" laughed Sir Mortimer, "why not put it at a round million and have done with it. No, egad! I want something more than your word—"
"You might inquire of my bankers," Barnabas suggested.
"Twenty thousand will suit me very well, sir!" nodded Sir Mortimer.
"Then you take me at that figure, Sir Mortimer?"
"Yes, I bet you twenty thousand guineas that you do not pass the winning-post ahead of me! And what's more,—non-starters to forfeit their money! Oh, egad,—I'll take you!"
"And I also," said Mr. Chichester, opening his betting-book. "Gentlemen, you are all witnesses of the bet. Come, Viscount,—Slingsby,—here's good money going a-begging—why not gather it in—eh, Marquis?" But the trio sat very silent, so that the scratch of Sir Mortimer's pencil could be plainly heard as he duly registered his bet, which done, he turned his attention to Barnabas again, looking him up and down with his bold, black eyes.
"Hum!" said he musingly, "it sticks in my mind that I have seen you—somewhere or other, before we met at Sir George Annersley's. Perhaps you will tell me where?"
"With pleasure, sir," answered Barnabas, putting away his memorandum book, "it was in Annersley Wood, rather early in the morning. And you wore—"
"Annersley—Wood!" Sir Mortimer's careless, lounging air vanished, and he stared at Barnabas with dilating eyes.
"And you wore, I remember, a bottle-green coat, which I had the misfortune to tear, sir."
And here there fell a silence, once more, but ominous now, and full of menace; a pregnant stillness, wherein the Viscount sat leaned forward, his hands clutching his chair-arms, his gaze fixed upon Barnabas; as for the Marquis, he had taken out his snuff-box and, in his preoccupation, came very near inhaling a pinch; while Captain Slingsby sat open-mouthed. Then, all at once, Sir Mortimer was on his feet and had caught up a heavy riding-whip, and thus he and Barnabas fronted each other, eye to eye,—each utterly still, yet very much on the alert.
But now upon this tense silence came the soft, smooth tones of
Mr. Chichester:
"Pray, Mr. Beverley, may I speak a word with you—in private?"
"If the company will excuse us," Barnabas replied; whereupon Mr. Chichester rose and led the way into the adjoining room, and, closing the door, took a folded letter from his pocket.
"Sir," said he, "I would remind you that the last time we met, you warned me,—indeed you have a weakness for warning people, it seems,—you also threatened me that unless I agreed to—certain conditions, you would dispossess me of my inheritance—"
"And I repeat it," said Barnabas.
"Oh, sir, save your breath and listen," smiled Mr. Chichester, "for let me tell you, threats beget threats, and warnings, warnings! Here is one, which I think—yes, which I venture to think you will heed!" So saying, he unfolded the letter and laid it upon the table. Barnabas glanced at it, hesitated, then stooping, read as follows:
DEAR LADY CLEONE,—I write this to warn you that the person calling
himself Mr. Beverley, and posing as a gentleman of wealth and
breeding, is, in reality, nothing better than a rich vulgarian, one
Barnabas Barty, son of a country inn-keeper. The truth of which
