"Yes," said Barnabas, "he has earned his name, Dick."
"And the man was—dead, you say?"
"Hideously dead, Dick,—and in his pocket we found this!" and Barnabas produced a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and put it into the Viscount's reluctant hand. "Look at it, Dick, and tell me what it is."
"Why, Bev,—deuce take me, it's a plan of our stables! And they've got it right, too! Here's 'Moonraker's' stall marked out as pat as you please, and 'The Terror's,' but they've got his name wrong—"
"My horse had no name, Dick."
"But there's something written here."
"Yes, look at it carefully, Dick."
"Well, here's an H, and an E, and—looks like 'Hera,' Bev!"
"Yes, but it isn't. Look at that last letter again, Dick!"
"Why, I believe—by God, Bev,—it's an E!"
"Yes,—an E, Dick."
"'Here'!" said the Viscount, staring at the paper; "why, then—why,
Bev,—it was—your horse they were after!"
"My horse,—yes, Dick."
"But he's a rank outsider—he isn't even in the betting! In heaven's name, why should any one—"
"Look on the other side of the paper, Dick."
Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and
thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and
from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this:
RONALD BARRYMAINE ESQUIRE.
"And Dick," said Barnabas, "it is in Chichester's handwriting."
CHAPTER L
IN WHICH RONALD BARRYMAINE SPEAKS HIS MIND
The whiskers of Mr. Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.
He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to the
cheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire.
At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeing
Barnabas, sank back again.
"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again—that is to say—" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner, "that is to say,—I mean—ah—in short, my dear Beverley, I'm delighted to see you!"
"Pray what do you mean by safe?"
"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean—safe, sir,—a very natural wish, surely?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"
"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,—"why, yes, of course—"
"At least, the Viscount told me so."
"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,—very!"
"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was evidently a bedroom.
"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it. You have hit the nail exactly—upon the nob, sir." Here, having found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it, and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,—it is a bitter cud, cursedly so,—wherein the milk of human kindness is curdled, sir, curdled most damnably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my friend Barry—wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the hammer of Adversity alone can weld,—scorning Friendship's holy obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,—upon Digby,—upon faithful Dig, and—in short has—ah—hopped the mutual perch, sir."
"Do you mean he has left you?"
"Yes, sir. We had words this morning—a good many and, the end of it was—he departed—for good, and all on your account!"
"My account?"
"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages, and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"
"But how on my account?"
