While Bertie—happy, lucky Bertie—was standing at the altar with his darling Ethel's hand in his, Howard Murpoint, Esq., and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe were driving through up the avenue to Coombe Lodge.
Howard Murpoint's luck had never deserted him since he had entered the drawing-room of the Park on that night of the dinner party. Everything had been smooth sailing.
He had conquered, so to speak, the whole world. He was rich, influential; he held the happiness, the fate of many in his hands; his brain was full of plots and schemes for his own advancement and others' ruin and discomfiture. Never, since the world began to wag, had the Evil One found a cleverer and more sympathetic servant, for Howard Murpoint, the gentleman, the member of parliament, the influential capitalist, was merciless, avaricious, cunning, and—superstitious. Yes, clever as he was, strong as he was, this was his weakness. He believed in luck; he was superstitious, and he felt a presentiment that the first stroke of bad luck would be the beginning of something more dreadful.
But to-day, as he dropped from his horse, which a groom had sprung forward to hold, he felt no presentiment, and the calm, cool smile which he threw to the nervous Mr. Wilhelm Smythe was one of supreme confidence.
"Be calm, my dear fellow," he whispered, as they were ushered into the drawing-room by the obsequious servant. "You will be the husband of Lady Ethel, and I shall win that twenty thousand pounds before a month has passed."
As he spoke Lady Lackland entered.
Shaking hands with the two, she said, with a troubled look upon her face:
"Did you meet Fitz and Ethel? They have gone for a ride, and should have gone your way."
"No," said the captain, with a smile. "We lost that pleasure."
Mr. Smythe sighed.