“I’ve seen him,” said Percy. “Speak louder; what are you afraid of, man? We are not two conspirators on the stage!”
“Quite right, my dear Percy. Conspirators! Certainly not! We are two men bound by a common impulse to—to—relieve—benefit our fellow creatures, and—ourselves!”
“Exactly,” said Percy Levant. “But go on. Remember that you have just congratulated me on my marriage, and that I am anxious to join my bride.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, are you aware, my dear Percy, that my friend the marquis was once married?”
“I know nothing about the Marquis of Stoyle.”
“That he was married——” he stopped and laughed with unctuous enjoyment. “When I think of it, my dear boy, I’m always tickled by the desire to laugh. You must know that the young lady had three lovers—the marquis, a certain Jeffrey Flint, and—myself!” and he laid his hand upon his heart and bowed.
As he did so, the curtains opened and three figures stood in the opening. They were those of Cecil, Lady Grace—and the trembling, emaciated form of the marquis himself. White, deathly white, the old man stood, clinging to Cecil’s arm, his piercing eyes fixed on the smooth, long-haired head of Spenser Churchill, with an expression that baffles all description.
Percy Levant rose, and, under the pretense of filling Spenser Churchill’s glass, made a warning gesture to them. Lady Grace seemed about to speak, but the marquis turned upon her with an awful ferocity, which seemed to deprive her of the power to speak or move.
Percy Levant sank back in his seat.
“Well?” he said.