"Tonight he killed Jasper Gaunt."

"Eh? Killed? Killed him?"

"Murdered him—though I think more by accident than design."

"Killed him! Murdered him!"

"Yes. Pull yourself together and listen. Tomorrow the hue and cry will be all over London, we must get him away—out of the country if possible."

"Yes, yes—of course! But he's ill—a fit, I think."

"Have you ever seen him so before?"

"Never so bad as this. There, Barry, there, my poor fellow! Help me to get him on the couch, will you, Beverley?"

Between them they raised that twitching form; then, as Mr. Smivvle stooped to set a cushion beneath the restless head, he started suddenly back, staring wide-eyed and pointing with a shaking finger.

"My God!" he whispered, "what's that? Look—look at his coat."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "we must have it off."

"No, no—it's too awful!" whimpered Mr. Smivvle, shrinking away, "see—it's—it's all down the front!"

"If this coat is ever found, it will hang him!" said Barnabas.

"Come, help me to get it off."

So between them it was done; thereafter, while Mr. Smivvle crouched beside that restless, muttering form, Barnabas put on his cloak and, rolling up the torn coat, hid it beneath its ample folds.

"What, are you going, Beverley?"

"Yes—for one thing to get rid of this coat. On the table are twenty guineas, take them, and just so soon as Barrymaine is fit to travel, get him away, but above all, don't—"

"Who is it?" cried Barrymaine suddenly, starting up and peering wildly over his shoulder, "w-who is it? Oh, I t-tell you there's s-somebody behind me—who is it?"

"Nobody, Barry—not a soul, my poor boy, compose yourself!" But, even as Mr. Smivvle spoke, Barrymaine fell back and lay moaning fitfully and with half-closed eyes. "Indeed I fear he is very ill, Beverley!"

"If he isn't better by morning, get a doctor," said Barnabas, "but, whatever you do—keep Chichester away from him. As regards money I'll see you shan't want for it. And now, for the present, good-by!"

So saying, Barnabas caught up his hat and, with a last glance at the moaning figure on the couch, went from the room and down the stairs, and let himself out into the dingy street.

CHAPTER LXV

WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS DISCHARGED HIS VALET

It was long past midnight when Barnabas reached his house in St. James's Square; and gazing up at its goodly exterior he sighed, and thereafter frowned, and so, frowning still, let himself in. Now, late though the hour, Peterby was up, and met him in the hall.

"Sir," said he, anxious of eye as he beheld his young master's disordered dress and the grim pallor of his face, "the Marquis of Jerningham and Viscount Devenham called. They waited for you,—they waited over an hour."

"But they are gone now, of course?" inquired Barnabas, pausing, with his foot on the stair.

"Yes, sir—"

"Good!" nodded Barnabas with a sigh of relief.

"But they left word they would call to-morrow morning, early; indeed they seemed most anxious to see you, sir."

"Ha!" said Barnabas, and, frowning still, went on up the stair.

"Sir," said Peterby, lighting the way into the dressing-room, "you received the—the letter safely?"

"Yes, I received it," said Barnabas, tossing aside his hat and cloak, "and that reminds me,—to-morrow morning you will discharge all the servants."

"Sir?"

"Pay them a month's wages. Also you will get rid of this house and furniture, and all the carriages and horses—except 'The Terror,' —sell them for what they will fetch—no matter how little, only—get rid of them."

"Yes, sir."

"As for yourself, Peterby, I shall require your services no longer. But you needn't lack for a position—every dandy of 'em all will be wild to get you. And, because you are the very best valet in the world, you can demand your own terms."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, I think that is all, I shan't want you again tonight—stay though, before I go to bed bring me the things I wore when I first met you, the garments which as clothes, you told me, didn't exist."

"Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Oh, yes—if you wish," sighed Barnabas, wearily.

"Are you leaving London, sir?"

"I'm leaving the World of Fashion—yes."

"And you—don't wish me to accompany you, sir."

"No."

"Have I—displeased you in any way?"

"No, it is only that the 'best valet in the world' would be wasted on me any longer, and I shall not need you where I am going."

"Not as a—servant, sir?"

"No."

"Then, sir, may I remind you that I am also a—man? A man who owes all that he is to your generosity and noble trust and faith. And, sir, it seems to me that a man may sometimes venture where a servant may not—if you are indeed done with the Fashionable World, I have done with it also, for I shall never serve any other than you."

Then Barnabas turned away and coming to the mantel leaned there, staring blankly down at the empty hearth; and in a while he spoke, though without looking up: