"Then—you won't tell me?"
"I can't."
"Won't! won't! Ah, but you shall, yes, by God!"
"Dick, I—"
"By God, but you shall, I say you shall—you must—where is she?"
The Viscount's pale cheek grew suddenly suffused, his eyes glared
fiercely, and his set teeth gleamed between his pallid lips.
"Tell me!" he demanded.
"No," said Barnabas, and shook his head.
Then, in that moment the Viscount sprang up and, pinning him with his left hand, swung Barnabas savagely to the wall.
"She's mine!" he panted, "mine, I tell you—no one shall take her from me, neither you nor the devil himself. She's mine—mine. Tell me where she is,—speak before I choke you—speak!"
But Barnabas stood rigid and utterly still. Thus, in a while, the griping fingers fell away, the Viscount stepped back, and groaning, bowed his head.
"Oh, Bev," said he, "forgive me, I—I'm mad I think. I want her so and I can't find her. And I had a spill last night—dark road you see, and only one hand,—and I'm not quite myself in consequence. I'll go—"
But, as he turned toward the door, Barnabas interposed.
"Dick, I can't let you go like this—what do you intend to do?"
"Will you tell me where she is?"
"No, but—"
"Then, sir, my further movements need not concern you."
"Dick, be reasonable,—listen—"
"Have the goodness to let me pass, sir."
"You are faint, worn out—stay here, Dick, and I—"
"Thanks, Beverley, but I accept favors from my friends only—pray stand aside."
"Dick, if you'll only wait, I'll go to her now—this moment—I'll beg her to see you—"
"Very kind, sir!" sneered the Viscount, "you are—privileged it seems. But, by God, I don't need you, or any one else, to act as go-between or plead my cause. And mark me, sir! I'll find her yet. I swear to you I'll never rest until I find her again. And now, sir, once and for all, I have the honor to wish you a very good day!" saying which the Viscount bowed, and, having re-settled his arm in its sling, walked away down the corridor, very upright as to back, yet a little uncertain in his stride nevertheless, and so was gone.
Then Barnabas, becoming aware of the polite letters, and cards, embossed, gilt-edged and otherwise, swept them incontinent to the floor and, sinking into a chair, set his elbows upon the table, and leaning his head upon his hands fell into a gloomy meditation. It was thus that the Gentleman-in-Powder presently found him, and, advancing into the room with insinuating legs, coughed gently to attract his attention, the which proving ineffectual, he spoke:
"Ex-cuse me, sir, but there is a—person downstairs, sir—at the door, sir!"
"What kind of person?" inquired Barnabas without looking up.
"A most ex-tremely low person, sir—very common indeed, sir. Won't give no name, sir, won't go away, sir. A very 'orrid person—in gaiters, sir."
"What does he want?" said Barnabas, with head still bent.
"Says as 'ow 'e 'as a letter for you, sir, but—"
Barnabas was on his feet so quickly that the Gentleman-in-Powder recoiled in alarm.
"Show him up—at once!"
"Oh!—cer-tainly, sir!" And though the bow of the Gentleman-in-Powder was all that it should be, his legs quivered disapprobation as they took him downstairs.
When next the door opened it was to admit the person in gaiters, a shortish, broad-shouldered, bullet-headed person he was, and his leggings were still rank of the stables; he was indeed a very horsey person who stared and chewed upon a straw. At sight of Barnabas he set a stubby finger to one eyebrow, and chewed faster than ever.
"You have a letter for me, I think?"
"Yessir!"
"Then give it to me."
The horsey person coughed, took out his straw, looked at it, shook his head at it, and put it back again.
"Name o' Beverley, sir?" he inquired, chewing feverishly.
"Yes."
