'O, just before I came down here, about ten days since. I came home through Paris, and there I found our young friend. He must be desperately hard up for some one to speak to, I imagine, as, though I know very little of him, he seemed to make tremendous advances for my society.'
'In Paris, was he?' said Uffington. 'Do you think he is there still?'
'O yes,' said Lydyeard. 'He said he should probably remain the winter, and I should think very likely he would from all I saw and heard.'
'Where is he staying?' asked Uffington.
'Nominally at Meurice's, but he is only to be found there between five in the morning, when he goes to bed, and three in the afternoon, when he gets up. I didn't mix myself up with him much, for he isn't quite my style, as you know; but from what I hear I have an idea that he must have taken to punting again--he used to be death on that when he was quite a lad, but I understood he had quite given it up. Now he seems to have gone at it again with additional vigour. He is a bad lot anyhow, and will come to a bad end. How long are you going to stay here? Why don't you come over and see Billy Norreys? He would be delighted to give you as much shooting as you liked.'
'Thanks. I don't know Mr. Norreys, but I am happy to assume his kindness, and yours, too, in thinking of me; but I must go to town this morning by express, as I want to catch the night mail to Paris.'
'You going to Paris? Then perhaps you will come across Forestfield. If you do, take my advice, and don't play with him. I shouldn't have said anything more if you hadn't been likely to meet; but I may tell you now that I heard he was mixed up with a very shady lot.'
'Much obliged for the warning,' said Uffington, with a light laugh, 'but I don't think I have much cause for fear. At games of skill I can hold my own with most men, and I rarely, if ever, play at games of chance. And now I must go and give my servant notice to pack; so good-bye. You don't know how pleased I am to have seen you.' He shook Lydyeard's hand warmly, and left the room.
'There is something more than I can quite make out in all this,' said Tom Lydyeard, whose powers of comprehension were somewhat limited. 'It strikes me that Uffington had no idea of going to Paris when I saw him ten minutes ago, and now he is off as fast as train and boat can carry him. I wonder what his motive can be. Let me see; I told him about Forestfield and his having taken to play. Perhaps Uffington intends to bleed him. I have heard said, by fellows who have met him abroad, that he is first rate at picquet and écarté I never heard of his rooking anybody, and there is no reason why he should, as he has plenty of money of his own. Perhaps he is smitten with my lady--he seemed to take great notice of her that night at the Opera--and has gone over to shoot Forestfield; but that is quite unnecessary, for if he wants to marry her he has only to wait a little time, and she will be regularly divorced. Perhaps he wants to "avenge" her, as they say on the stage, and is going over to call Forestfield out on that account; but that sort of thing has long died out among Englishmen. I cannot make out what he is going over for, it quite beats me,' said honest Tom, 'and after all it's no business of mine;' with which remark he was in the habit of consoling himself when he found his intelligence at fault.
'Now blessings on that worthy old gentleman at Cowes Castle who was good enough to send me on to Torquay,' said Uffington to himself, as he took his seat, an hour after this conversation, in the up express, 'and blessings on the tic or toothache, or whatever it was, that knocked off a day of Tom Lydyeard's pheasant-shooting, and sent him into the town for a bottle of medicine. There is probably no other man in England who could have given me the exact information I wanted.'