“Yes, at the Hôtel de Russie; got it for two thousand two hundred francs,—it cost ten, six months ago. A quint in spades, and the cards divided; I score thirty-one.”
“And when is he to learn that he has succeeded to the title?”
“When he's across the Alps,—when he is out of the land of rouge et noir and roulette; he may know it then, as soon as he pleases. I 'm to join them at Como, or Milan, as I can't well 'show' at Baden, even at this late time of year. Before I come up he 'll have heard all about Lacking-ton's death.”
“Will it ever occur to him, Kit, to suspect that you were aware of it?”
“I don't know; perhaps it may,” said Grog, doggedly.
“If so, will the impression not lead to a very precarious state of relations between you?”
“Maybe so,—seven hearts and five spades, you are 'capoted.' There, Paul, that doesn't leave so much between us, after all. What if he does suspect it? The world suspects fifty things about me that no man has ever yet dared to lay to my charge. If you and I, Master Paul, were to fret ourselves about the suspicions that are entertained of us, we'd have a pleasant life of it. Your good health.”
“To yours, my dear Kit; and may I never drink it in worse tipple would be the only additional pleasure I could suggest to the toast. It is wonderful Madeira!”
“I have had it in the London Docks since the year '81; every bottle of it now, seeing that the vines are ruined in the island, is worth from thirty shillings to five-and-thirty. I won it from Tom Hardiman; he took the invoice out of his pocket-book and flung it across the table to me. 'Grog,' says he, 'when you take it out of bond, mind you ask me to dinner, and give me a bottle of it?' But he's gone, 'toes up,' and so here's to his memory.”
“'Drunk in solemn silence,' as the newspapers say,” broke in Paul, as he drained his glass.