Ripton was left in the cab at the door of my lord’s residence. He had to wait there a space of about ten minutes, when Richard returned with a clearer visage, though somewhat heated. He stood outside the cab, and Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong grey eyes. As clear as speech he understood them to say to him, “You won’t do,” but which of the many things on earth he would not do for he was at a loss to think.
“Go down to Raynham, Ripton. Say I shall be there tonight certainly. Don’t bother me with questions. Drive off at once. Or wait. Get another cab. I’ll take this.”
Ripton was ejected, and found himself standing alone in the street. As he was on the point of rushing after the galloping cab-horse to get a word of elucidation, he heard some one speak behind him.
“You are Feverel’s friend?”
Ripton had an eye for lords. An ambrosial footman, standing at the open door of Lord Mountfalcon’s house, and a gentleman standing on the doorstep, told him that he was addressed by that nobleman. He was requested to step into the house. When they were alone, Lord Mountfalcon, slightly ruffled, said: “Feverel has insulted me grossly. I must meet him, of course. It’s a piece of infernal folly!—I suppose he is not quite mad?”
Ripton’s only definite answer was, a gasping iteration of “My lord.”
My lord resumed: “I am perfectly guiltless of offending him, as far as I know. In fact, I had a friendship for him. Is he liable to fits of this sort of thing?”
Not yet at conversation-point, Ripton stammered: “Fits, my lord?”
“Ah!” went the other, eying Ripton in lordly cognizant style. “You know nothing of this business, perhaps?”
Ripton said he did not.