"I cannot quite say. Refresh my memory; it may have been."
"Bartholomew."
"Upon my word, now you mention it, I think Bartholomew was mentioned. Another uncommon name."
"You have occasion to remember that night, you said, apart from me. May I inquire in what way?"
"Well, when we left the theatre, we adjourned to a private room in the Grand, and there we had a little flutter. Baccarat was the game, and I was cleaned out. Upon my honour, I think I was the most unfortunate beggar under the sun. I give you my word that I hadn't enough left to pay my hotel bill, which was the last legacy I left my honoured father."
"Your money-lending friend won the money, I suppose?"
"He won a bit, but the spoil fell principally to an elderly gentleman of the name of--of--of--now what was the fellow's name? It wasn't English, nor was he an Englishman. Ah. I have it. Bidaud--yes, Bidaud."
Basil's face turned white; there was no longer room for doubt that foul treachery had been done. It was Newman Chaytor who had plotted and planned for his destruction. This he might have borne, and the white heat of his anger might have grown cold with time. But Anthony Bidaud's introduction into the bad scheme included also Annette, a possible victim in the treachery. That she should become the prey of these villains, and that he should allow her life to be ruined, her happiness to be blasted, without an effort to save her, was not to be thought of. The scales fell from his eyes, and he saw Newman Chaytor in his true light. By what crooked paths the end had been reached he could not, in the excitement of the moment, determine. That would have to be thought out presently; meanwhile his resolution was taken. To remain inactive would be the work of a coward.
"You know the name of Bidaud?" said Mr. Majoribanks.
"I know it well," said Basil. "Did this M. Bidaud accompany you to the theatre on that night?"