“Hammond?” said the Marquis sharply. He strode up to Mr. Comyn, his eyes suddenly eager. “Then you’ve not done it? Quick, man, it was a lie?”
“It was a lie, my lord,” answered Mr. Comyn quietly.
Lord Rupert listened open-mouthed to this interchange, and glanced hopelessly at the Duchess. Her eyes had begun to twinkle, and she said frankly: “It is quite incomprehensible, mon vieux. Me, I know nothing, and no one tells me.”
“Plague take it, I won’t have it!” roared his lordship, goaded beyond endurance. “What’s a lie? Who’s this fellow Hammond? Oh, I’ll end in Bedlam, devil a doubt!”
“Shall I tell the English monsieur that M. Comyn is engaged?” asked the landlord doubtfully.
“Bring him in here at once!” commanded Rupert. “Don’t stand there goggling, fatwit! Go and fetch him!”
“Yes, go and fetch him,” said the Marquis. He was still looking at Mr. Comyn, but he was frowning no longer. “Good God, Comyn, do you know how near to death you have been?” he asked softly.
Mr. Comyn smiled. “I am aware, my lord. The heat of the moment — excusable, you will agree — being happily past, I can make allowances for the very natural fury of a man deeply in love.”
“Mighty good of you,” said his lordship with a rather rueful grin. “I’ll admit I’m a thought too ready with my hands.” He turned as the door was once more opened to admit a gentleman dressed in a black habit and bands, and a Ramillies wig. “Mr. Hammond?” he said. “In a very good hour, sir!”
The cleric looked him over with patent disapproval. “I have not the pleasure, I think, of your acquaintance, sir,” he said frigidly. “I am come here, much against my will, at the request of Mr. — ah — Comyn.”