VIII
I turned and saw a little man, his slender figure erect, one hand in the bosom of his coat.
“Devereux!” he called, with a terrible loud voice.
The villain started, loosed Diana and turned upon the speaker of the evening.
“Meaning me, withal?” he sneered; “that’s not my name.”
“Quite unimportant,” said the little man. “Devereux, Haredale, Marmaduke, Chester, Steerforth—name’s unimportant. I’ve met you a hundred times in a hundred books and plays and whatever the name, you’re always the same.”
The stranger’s lips curled from gnashing teeth, as he seized his heavy riding whip. A blinding flash, a deafening report, the oncoming figure stopped, right arm dangling helplessly, then lurched and stumbled out of sight, as the little man restored his little silver-mounted pocket-pistol to his pocket.
“My child,” said he, “yonder comes my man with the tea equipage. He always comes when he hears me shoot any one. Let us have tea. I am the Earl of Wyvelstoke.”
So we had tea but lingered not long, as yet there was much to be done ere the rising of the orbed moon gave us surcease of action.