“To hell with that!” said Rupert. “I’m breaking ’em, see? If they’re true, Quarles apologizes. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Ay, that’s the best,” Captain Wraxall agreed.
Mr. Quarles was wiping his face. “I say my lord will meet me! By God, I’ll not take a glass of wine in the face and say thank you for it!”
Cholmondley spoke in Lord Rupert’s ear. “It’s gone too far now. Rot that nephew of yours! What’s to do?”
“Break the dice,” Rupert said obstinately. “Can’t have it said an Alastair plays crooked.”
“Oh, you’re as drunk as Vidal! Who’s to say so? Quarles will take it back when he’s sober if you can stop Vidal forcing it on now.”
The waiter had come back into the room carrying a flat case. With a scared look at the Marquis he laid this on the table. Vidal opened it, and it was to be seen that a brace of pistols lay within. “Take your choice,” he said.
Rupert stared. “What’s this? Can’t fight here, Dominic. Arrange it for you out at Barn Elms, nine o’clock.”
“By nine o’clock I shall be in Newmarket,” said the Marquis. “I’ll settle my score before I leave.”
Mr. Fox roused himself. He inspected the pistols through his eyeglass, and looked inquiringly at Vidal. “Where did they come from?” he said. “Don’t carry pistols to gaming houses myself.”