O'Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleasantly with some of his most illustrious friends, laughingly telling how unfortunate he had been, and in sportive vein declaring that, from the very fact of her sex, a man should not trust too much to Fortune. “I 'll go and play dominoes with the Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it will be a cheap pleasure even if I lose.” And he moved off towards a smaller salon, where the more exclusive of the guests were accustomed to assemble.
Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a company where he was not known to any, O'Shea sauntered out into the garden, and, tempted by the fresh night air, sat down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to take a brisk walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads to Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time favored reflection. On and on he went at a smart pace, the activity of mind suggesting activity of body, and, before he knew it, had strolled some miles from Baden, and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that leads to Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings by the passage of a one-horse carriage quite close to him, and which, having gained a piece of level ground, drew up. The door was quickly opened, and a man got out; the moonlight was full upon his figure, and O'Shea saw it was Paten. He looked around for a second or two, and then entered the wood. O'Shea determined to explore the meaning of the mystery, and, crossing the low edge, at once followed him. Guided by the light of the cigar which Paten was smoking, O'Shea tracked him till he perceived him to come to a halt, and immediately after heard the sound of voices. The tone was angry and imperious on both sides, and, in intense eagerness, O'Shea drew nigher and nigher.
“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and resolute voice. “I know well how much you believe of such trumpery.”
“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I give you money, so certain am I to lose. Thursday week I gave you five Naps; I lost that same night seventy thousand francs; on Wednesday last the same thing; and to-night two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, besides, so late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, you 'd leave Baden, to go back to England.”
“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and came out without sixpence; and I'm sure it was not lending brought bad luck upon me.” added he, with a bitter laugh.
“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another fraction! You think to terrify me by exposure; but who 'll stand that test best,—the man who can draw on his banker for five thousand pounds, or the outcast who can't pay for his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and say the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on a dunghill.”
“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall know to-morrow morning the whole story, and you will see how many will sit down at the same table with you. You 're a fool—you always were a fool—to insult a man as reckless as I am. What have I to lose? They can't try me over again any more than you. But you can be shunned and cut by your fine acquaintances, turned out of clubs, disowned on every hand—”
“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all that rubbish fifty times from you, but it does n't terrify me. The man that can live as I do need never want friends or acquaintances; the starving beggar it is who has no companionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you threaten, and at the end of the week let us square accounts, and see who has the best of it.”
“I 'll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and I 'll say, 'The man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, is Paul Hunt, the accomplice of Towers, that was hanged for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey. My name is Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on that day. Here we stand,—he in fine clothes, and I in rags, but not so very remote as externals bespeak us.'”
“In two hours after I 'd have you sent over the frontier with a gendarme, as a vagabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be travelling post to Italy.”