“I was stopped on the road by a highwayman,” answered Mr. Jennico quietly. “Nothing unusual in that, you will say; but there was something a little out of the common nevertheless in the fact that he fired his pistol at me without the formality of bidding me stand and deliver; which formality, I believe, is according to the etiquette of the road. I am glad to tell you that I think we left our mark on the gentleman this time, for as he rode away he bent over his saddle, we thought, like one who will not ride very far. But, faith! the brood is not extirpated, and the worthy folk who display such an interest in me, finding hot lead so unsuccessful, have now taken to cold steel.”
Sir John Beddoes damned his immortal soul with great fervour.
“Pray, sir,” remarked Mr. Carew with an insinuating smile, “may not the identity of the murderer be of easier solution than you deem? Are there no heirs to your money?”
“I might pretend to misunderstand you, Mr. Carew,” said Basil, flushing, “although your meaning is plain. Permit me to say, however, that I fail to find a point to the jest.”
“‘Twas hardly likely you would find humour in a point so inconveniently aimed against yourself,” answered Carew airily. “But ’tis a rarity, Jennico, to find a man ready to take up the cudgels for his heirs and successors. Nevertheless, I crave your pardon, the more so because I am fain to know what befell you to-night.”
“To-night was an ill night to choose for so evil an attempt,” said the Chevalier, rousing himself from a fit of musing and looking reflectively round upon the fog, which hung ever closer even in the warm and well-lit room.
“It was the very night for their purpose, my dear Chevalier,” returned the young man with artificial gaiety. “Faith, it was like to have succeeded with them, and I make sure mine enemy, whoever he may be, is pluming himself even now upon the world well rid of my cumbersome existence. I was on foot, too, and what with the darkness and emptiness of the streets I was, I may say, delivered into their hands. But they are sad bunglers. One of my pretty fellows in Moravia would have done such a job for me, were I in the way to require it, as cleanly and with as little ado as you pick your first pheasant in October, Jack. And yet it may be that I am providentially preserved—preserved for a better fate.” Here he tossed off his glass as if to a silent toast.
“But why on foot, my dear Jennico? On foot—fie, fie, and in this weather! What could you expect?” cried Carew with a shiver of horror.
“If you were not so fond of interruption, Mr. Carew,” said the Chevalier with a sinister smile, “perhaps we might sooner get to the end of Mr. Jennico’s story. We are all eagerness to hear about this last miraculous preservation.”