Randal stopped. “Will you excuse me for an instant? As we are passing this hotel, I will just leave my card here.” So saying he gave his card to a waiter lounging by the door. “For the Count di Peschiera,” said he, aloud.
L’Estrange started; and as Randal again took his arm, said, “So that Italian lodges here; and you know him?”
“I know him but slightly, as one knows any foreigner who makes a sensation.”
“He makes a sensation?”
“Naturally; for he is handsome, witty, and said to be very rich,—that is, as long as he receives the revenues of his exiled kinsman.”
“I see you are well informed, Mr. Leslie. And what is supposed to bring hither the Count di Peschiera?”
“I did hear something, which I did not quite understand, about a bet of his that he would marry his kinsman’s daughter, and so, I conclude, secure to himself all the inheritance; and that he is therefore here to discover the kinsman and win the heiress. But probably you know the rights of the story, and can tell me what credit to give to such gossip.”
“I know this at least, that if he did lay such a wager, I would advise you to take any odds against him that his backers may give,” said L’Estrange, dryly; and while his lip quivered with anger, his eye gleamed with arch ironical humour.
“You think, then, that this poor kinsman will not need such an alliance in order to regain his estates?”
“Yes; for I never yet knew a rogue whom I would not bet against, when he backed his own luck as a rogue against Justice and Providence.”