“Good God, it’s Vidal!” ejaculated Lord Cholmondley.
Mr. Fox, who was playing piquet with him, tranquilly dealt a fresh hand. “Why not?” he inquired.
“Cold-blooded devil!” marvelled Cholmondley.
Mr. Fox looked bored, and waved a languid hand at the Marquis.
Vidal was standing just inside the card-room, apparently surveying the company. There was just a moment when all play was suspended, and heads turned in his direction. The sudden silence was broken by an inebriated gentleman seated by the window, who called out: “Hey, Vidal, what time did you make? Laid a monkey you’d not do it under the four hours.”
“You have lost your stake, my lord,” said the Marquis. He perceived Mr. Fox, and began to make his leisurely way across the room to his table.
A hum of talk broke out. Many disapproving glances were cast at Vidal’s tall figure, but he seemed unaware of them and passed to Mr. Fox’s side, a picture of cool unconcern.
Cholmondley had laid down his cards. “Is that true?” he demanded. “You made it in the four hours?”
The Marquis smiled. “I made it in three hours and forty-four minutes, my dear.”
“Man, you were drunk!” Cholmondley cried. “I’d say it was impossible!”