A Poached Peerage

by Sir William Magnay

CHAPTER XXV

For several seconds neither man spoke; Peckover, sprawling limply as he fell, staring with distended, apprehensive eyes at Quorn who, master of the strange situation, regarded him with a certain grim amusement.

"Hope you are having a good time, Mr.—Gage, is it?—or something else, which for the moment has slipped my memory?"

Peckover's wits were rapidly recovering from the shock of dispersal caused by the unexpected bomb which had fallen on them. "Curious we should meet again like this," he said with a sickly smile.

"Very," was the pointed response. "And a trifle awkward, I should fancy, for you."

"Oh, no," Peckover protested, pulling himself together and assuming the boldest face he could summon up. "It wasn't my fault you drank that doctored wine, which I intended for my own consumption."

"Dare say not," Quorn returned uncompromisingly. "Admitting for the sake of argument that was an unfortunate mistake, how about you and your friend annexing my place and title?"

Peckover's face showed bland surprise. "Me and my friend taking your place and title? What do you mean?"

"Oh," replied Quorn with impatient sarcasm, "we are dense this evening. It may astonish you, Mr. Alias Gage, but I rather fancy Staplewick Park and Towers belong to Lord Quorn."

"Who suggested they didn't?" asked Peckover wonderingly.

"I'd like to see the man, that's all," retorted Quorn. "And," he resumed, "I'm rather under the impression that I'm Lord Quorn."

"I dare say," was the prompt rejoinder. "But it doesn't follow you are that nobleman."

"What?" he roared.

"Don't make a noise," said Peckover, with a touch of dignity; "the servants aren't used to it."

"I say I am Lord Quorn," the other repeated with less volume but more intensity. "And you know it."

"But Lord Quorn says he's Lord Quorn," argued the wily Peckover with maddening plausibility. "That's all I know. I'm not the Heralds' College."

"You're a pair of frauds," cried Quorn.

"Naturally, if you're the rightful peer," was the bland reply. "But we don't know it, nor anybody else."

"Don't they?"

"Except yourself, I was going to say, and a lady and gentleman who have come all the way from Australia to stick to it—and you."

The hit told. Quorn's manner visibly weakened.

"What—you've had the nuisances up here—what is their infernal game?" he asked, darkly apprehensive.

"Simple enough," replied Peckover, beginning to feel the courage he had hitherto simulated. "The fair Lalage's game is to be Lady Quorn, or to know the reason why. And she has brought over dear old Carnaby as an extra note of interrogation."

"Oh! What persevering devils they are," Quorn observed uneasily. "And what do they say to your friend who calls himself Lord Quorn?"

"Say?" Peckover's native smartness was quick to turn the situation to advantage. "Why, their idea is that one Lord Quorn's as good as another and failing one the other will do nicely."

Quorn gave a long whistle. "Why, you don't mean to say that Lal Leo is going for your friend?"

"She is, though, by George," was the blunt answer. "Only, of course, she hasn't got the hold on him she would have on you. And that's where Carnaby comes in."

Quorn looked at him searchingly, but was fain to accept the statement. Besides which, it tallied with his idea of the Leonine methods. "Well, that's a queer go," he said, and then fell into a puzzled silence. Presently he burst out with a question, not unnatural under the circumstances. "Who the devil is the thief who has the cheek to call himself Lord Quorn?"

Peckover shrugged. "For aught I know to the contrary he is Lord Quorn," he replied blandly.

"Rats!" cried the dispossessed one wrathfully. "It's a put-up job between you and him."

"My good sir——"

"You know he's not Lord Quorn, and you know I am."

"I've told you already, not being in the know of the Heralds' College, I'm not in a position to say anything about it."

"Aren't you?" sneered Quorn. "I know all about it, though. When I drank that loaded stuff that sent me to sleep that was your chance, and you took it."

"Did I?"

"You did. And I don't blame you. But I've woke up now."

"Then," rejoined Peckover sarcastically, "since you are so wide-awake, perhaps you can explain why I didn't take the title myself?"

"I suppose," Quorn replied nastily, "you didn't feel you could fill the part."

"Of a British nobleman?" Peckover laughed scornfully. "Too steady and respectable, eh? My highly creditable record wouldn't have stood in my way if I'd had a chance of nobbling the coronet."

Quorn brought his fist down with a bang on the table. "D—n it, man, who is this fellow?"

"Lord Quorn," Peckover maintained.

"Lord Quorn!" The real man could not find words to express his disgust. "How did you pick him up?" he demanded, seeing the uselessness of arguing the question of identity.

"He picked me up," Peckover replied coolly.

"How? When? Where?"

"I'll tell you all about it, if you won't make such a noise," Peckover said suavely. "He came to the Quorn Arms just after you had made that little mistake in the refreshment, and announced himself as Lord Quorn; and who was I to say he was not Lord Quorn?"

"Funny," remarked Quorn, "that he should have brought you along here."

"Fact is," was the ready explanation, "he was afraid of being caught by those Hemyock terrors who straightaway began tumbling over one another to get him. Brought me along here as a chaperon, or an umbrella, if you like, and I've made myself useful."

"I see," said Quorn suspiciously. "And how about being a millionaire?"

"That," replied Peckover, "is how we worked the trick. Lady Agatha is a nailer. She wouldn't have wasted board and lodging on a poor man. And as a rich chap I can whistle the dear girls off when they get closer to Quorn than he cares about."

The assumption of the title irritated its real holder. "Quorn?" he repeated resentfully. "I like that. There's only one Quorn, and I'm going to show everybody where he is."

"Lalage and all?" was the pertinent objection.

"Oh, confound Lalage!"

"Just so—confound Lalage," was the hearty response, "Only take care Lalage does not confound you."

For a few moments Quorn preserved an aggrieved and discomfited silence. "You don't suppose," he said at length, "I am going to stand being humbugged like this."

"I don't reckon anything about it," replied Peckover with wise mendacity. "You two Quorns had better fight it out between yourselves. Only——"

"Only what?" the other snapped.

"If I were you I should wait until the ring's clear before I put up my hands."

Quorn stared in front of him in gloomy silence. "Pretty darned mess it is," he remarked presently.

"It is. But it will clear up," said Peckover cheerfully. "That is if you give it time."

Quorn made a sour face. "Nice position for me——"

"If you will go engaging the affections of ladies from the Bush with short hair and muscular brothers," put in Peckover. "It's a mercy as it is that this other claimant cropped up. He has saved you a lot of worry."

"So they're after him?" asked Quorn with grim amusement.

"You bet. He had to stay in bed for a week to keep out of their way. Lalage has crossed over to be Lady Quorn, and she means business."

"The devil she does!" exclaimed Quorn uneasily.

"Just think," urged Peckover with telling plausibility, "what this other Quorn has saved you from. Dear old Carnaby has a rare hankering after experiments on people's physiognomies; trying how a man looks with his nose bent, his eye closed, and a tooth or two smudged out. He fitted his dooks once round my throat, and I can feel 'em there now."

"What was that for?"

"Just to keep his hand in. He is uncommonly keen on meeting you, and he has got a bagful of funniments ready for the occasion."

"Pleasant fellow," ejaculated Quorn ruefully.

"Yes," pursued Peckover, "it's providential this chap, t'other Quorn, turned up. And if you take my advice you'll let him sit where he is till the Leos have eaten their heads off at The Pigeons and turned the game up."

"Looks as though I'd better," Quorn agreed reluctantly.

"It will be bad enough if Carnaby catches you about as it is," continued Peckover, encouraged by the success of his argument. "He may do something distinctly unpleasant, but, not being for the moment Lord Quorn, you won't have to marry old Lalage into the bargain."

"That's something," murmured Quorn.

"Everything, almost," said Peckover cheerfully. "If you wriggle out of that matrimonial spring-trap, you won't mind leaving half of your tail behind. You may lose a feature or two, but you'll be saved a life-time of bother."

"To get quit of Lalage would be gratifying," Quorn admitted gloomily. "But with my nose sliced off——"

"If," urged Peckover encouragingly, "you keep away from the looking-glass you'll never miss it."

"But other people will," Quorn objected, clearly discomposed by the idea.

"Well, then," Peckover summed up, "if you don't feel equal to tackling the gentle Carnaby either as Quorn or Jenkins, you had best lie low till they cart themselves away. The other Quorn won't be particular, since you saved his life, and Treacher doesn't go for a month. We'll fix you up a room in one of the lodges, and you can spend your time in keeping out of Lalage's way. Give out you are surveying the estate, which, if it should turn out to be yours, won't be trouble thrown away. I'll look after you, and back you up. You can trust me."

"I don't know that I can," was the not unnatural objection.

"Of course you can," Peckover assured him sympathetically. "Anyhow, you've got to, unless you want Carnaby to wring you out and swab the stable yard with you."

"A nice thing," Quorn protested distastefully, "for me to be skulking about, and playing the understrapper on my own estate."

"Ah, yes," said Peckover sententiously. "We often have to pay for our fun when we least expect to."

Thus it came to pass that matters shaped themselves to the wily Peckover's handling, and he was able with native shrewdness to snatch a fresh reprieve from the threatening exposure. And it was of manifest importance for him to do so, since every day's income made an appreciable addition to the little capital he was amassing. If only he could keep the game up for a few months it would be for him, an independence. That former income of his, thirty-five shillings a week, would be his for life, and without working. No wonder he sharpened his wits to keep his oddly diversified puppets dallying.

So the unsuspecting Lord Quorn by purchase continued to enjoy his title, little dreaming of the Jenkinsian volcano at his very door. So likewise the chafing and mystified Quorn was assiduously taken in hand by Peckover and his fears kept up to high-water mark.