“You’re not in society until you’ve crossed that threshold,” Carlisle went on. “It’s the newest of the hells. Vidal and Fox made it the fashion. The play’s high; you’re not the man to mind that, I take it. All the same,” he added thoughtfully, “I’d not play at Vidal’s table if I were you. The pace he sets is a trifle too hot for most of us. Don’t know if you’ve run across the Devil’s Cub yet?”
“I had the honour of meeting his lordship at the drum last week,” said Mr. Comyn. “I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with him.”
Carlisle stared. “Will you, by gad?” he said.
Timothy’s was a discreet-looking establishment in a street off St. James’s. An unobtrusive individual, casually strolling up and down the road, was pointed out to Mr. Comyn as the orderly-man, engaged to give warning if any constables approached. The windows were thickly curtained, but when a funereally clad porter admitted my Lord Carlisle and his protégé, Mr. Comyn fairly blinked at the blaze of lights within the house. The porter, who was clothed in black, rather startled him, but on the way upstairs my lord explained that this sombre livery was a whim of Mr. Fox’s, who was given to such conceits.
“Surely, sir, Mr. Fox is not the owner of a gaming-house?” said Mr. Comyn, greatly surprised.
“Oh no, but he’s Vidal’s crony, and Timothy, so I’m told, was in the Duke of Avon’s employ until he discovered in himself a genius for this sort of thing. Thus, you see, what Vidal or his intimates want is all that signifies to Master Timothy.”
They had reached the head of the stairway, and Lord Carlisle led the way into the first of the gaming-rooms. It was somewhat crowded, and was apparently given over to pharaoh and deep basset.
My lord passed through it, exchanging a greeting here and there, and led Mr. Comyn through an archway into a second and smaller apartment. The rattle of dice sounded here, and Mr. Comyn’s eye brightened. There was only one table, and that occupied the centre of the room, and was surrounded by a fair number of onlookers.
“H’m! Vidal’s bank,” grunted Carlisle. “Shouldn’t play if I were you.”
Mr. Comyn perceived my Lord Vidal at the end of the table, a glass at his elbow. His cravat was loosened, and a strand of lightly-powdered hair had escaped the riband that tied it in his neck. He wore a coat of purple velvet, heavily laced, and a flowered waistcoat, one or two of the buttons of which had come undone. He looked pale in the candle-light, and rather more dissipated than usual. He glanced up as Mr. Comyn drew near the table, but his eyes, which seemed unusually brilliant, betrayed no recognition.