“His name is Conway; he was a lieutenant in the 12th Lancers, but you will remember him better as the owner of Sir Aubrey.”
“I remember him perfectly,” replied Davis, with all his own composure,—“I remember him perfectly,—a tall, good-looking fellow, with short moustaches. He was—except yourself—the greatest flat I ever met in the betting-ring; and that's a strong word, Mr. Annesley Beecher,—ain't it?”
“I suspect you 'd scarcely like to call him a flat to-day, at least, to his face,” said Beecher, angrily.
A look of mingled insolence and contempt was all the answer Davis gave this speech; and then half filling a tumbler with brandy, he drank it off, and said slowly,—
“What I would dare to do, you certainly would never suspect,—that much I 'm well aware of. What you would dare is easily guessed at.”
“I don't clearly understand you,” said Beecher, timidly.
“You 'd dare to draw me into a quarrel on the chance of seeing me 'bowled over,'” said Davis, with a bitter laugh. “You 'd dare to see me stand opposite another man's pistol, and pray heartily at the same time that his hand might n't shake, nor his wrist falter; but I've got good business habits about me, Master Beecher. If you open that writing-desk, you 'll own few men's papers are in better order, or more neatly kept; and there is no satisfaction I could have to offer any one would n't give me ample time to deposit in the hands of justice seven forged acceptances by the Honorable Annesley Beecher, and the power of attorney counterfeited by the same accomplished gentleman's hand.”
Beecher put out his hand to catch the decanter of brandy; but Davis gently removed the bottle, and said, “No, no; that's only Dutch courage, man; nerve yourself up, and learn to stand straight and manfully, and when you say, 'Not guilty,' do it with a bold look at the jury box.'”
Beecher dropped into his seat, and buried his head between his hands.
“I often think,” said Davis, as he took out his cigar-case and proceeded to choose a cigar,—“I often think it would be a fine sight when the swells—the fashionable world, as the newspapers call them—would be pressing on to the Old Bailey to see one of their own set in the dock. What nobs there would be on the Bench! All Brookes's and the Wyndham scattered amongst the bar. The 'Illustrated News' would have a photographic picture of you, and the descriptive fellows would come out strong about the way you recognized your former acquaintances in court. Egad! old Grog Davis would be quite proud to give his evidence in such company!' How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner in the dock, Mr. Davis?' cried he, aloud, imitating the full and imperious accents of an examining counsel. 'I have known him upwards of fifteen years, my Lord. We went down together to Leeds in the summer of 1840 on a little speculation with cogged dice—'”