When, on the following morning, Charles Heathcote repaired to the hotel where he had left his friend Lord Agincourt, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices and laughter as he drew nigh the room; nor less astonished was he, on entering, to discover O'Shea seated at the breakfast-table, and manifestly in the process of enjoying himself. Had there been time to retire undetected, Heathcote would have done so, for his head was far too full of matters of deep interest to himself to desire the presence of a stranger, not to say that he had a communication to make to his friend both delicate and difficult. O'Shea's quick glance had, however, caught him at once, and he cried out, “Here's the very man we wanted to make us complete,—the jolliest party of three that ever sat down together.”
“I scarcely thought to see you in these parts,” said Heathcote, with more of sulk than cordiality in the tone.
“Your delight ought to be all the greater, though, maybe, it is n't! You look as glum as the morning I won your trap and the two nags.”
“By the way, what became of them?” asked Heathcote.
“I sold the chestnut to a young cornet in the Carabineers. He saw me ride him through all the bonfires in Sackville Street the night the mob beat the police, and he said he never saw his equal to face fire; and he was n't far wrong there, for the beast was stone blind.”
“And the gray?”
“The gray is here, in Rome, and in top condition; and if I don't take him over five feet of timber, my name is n't Gorman.” A quick wink and a sly look towards Agincoort conveyed to Heathcote the full meaning of this speech.
“And you want a high figure for him?” asked he.
“If I sell him,—if I sell him at all; for you see, if the world goes well with me, and I have a trump or two in my hand, I won't part with that horse. It's not every day in the week that you chance on a beast that can carry fifteen stone over a stiff country,—ay, and do it four days in the fortnight!”
“What's his price?” asked Agincourt.