“My dear fellow, all the servants speak Italian,” said Percy Levant, leaning back in his chair with a careless and indifferent air. “While you speak English you are quite safe!”
Spencer Churchill fell back.
“Oh, all right!” he said. “I rely on your discretion. Well, it didn’t suit me that Cecil should marry Miss Marlowe for several reasons. One being that I could not drive a bargain with him as I could——” he stopped.
“As you could with a penniless adventurer like me,” finished Percy Levant. “I understand. And so you succeeded in separating them and—selling her to me. That’s quite clear. I’ve no doubt you managed it very cleverly; I should think forgery and that kind of thing would come easy to you, my dear Churchill.”
“Sir! Mr. Levant!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, pugnaciously, and half rising from his chair; then, as he met the steady gaze of the dark eyes, he subsided again, and waved his hand pityingly.
“My dear Percy, you wrong me. What I did, I did as much in the interest of my dear friend, the Marquis of Stoyle, and the young man himself. It was the marquis who assisted me, I assure you. Packed dear Cecil off to Ireland, and kept him there—kept him there—till I’d got his ladylove away.”
The curtain stirred behind the self-satisfied, triumphant plotter, but Percy Levant, unseen by his companion, held up his hand warningly.
“Really! And the marquis is gratified, no doubt. But, after all, this is not my business. I want to know——”
Spenser Churchill leaned forward and dropped his voice, but not to so low a pitch but that the listeners on either side of the room could hear distinctly.
“You want to know whom it is you have married. I’ll tell you. Wait, you don’t know the Marquis of Stoyle?”