Arrived there, he ran up the steps of Dr. Lane’s establishment, knocked loudly on the door, and was soon admitted. He came out again presently with all the satisfied air of one who has successfully accomplished his task, called up a hackney, and drove back to Cork Street.
Half an hour later a tilbury drove up Great Ormond Street, and stopped outside Dr. Lane’s house. A second gentleman knocked on the doctor’s door, and was admitted. His visit lasted a little longer than Mr. Fitzjohn’s, but when he at length emerged he, too, wore the look of one perfectly satisfied with the success of his mission.
Meanwhile Peregrine, when Mr. Fitzjohn had left him, finished his toilet with less than his usual care, and tried not to think too much about the morrow. His thoughts, however, showed a disposition to creep back to it, and he found himself recalling all the fatal duels of which he had heard. Happily none of these were very recent. The only recent duels he could call to mind were the Duke of York’s meeting with Colonel Lennox (which had taken place three years before his own birth), and Lord Castlereagh’s late affair with Mr. Canning. Neither of these meetings had proved fatal, but Peregrine could not but acknowledge that there might have been a score of others between lesser persons of which he had never heard. An exchange of shots between himself and Farnaby would, in all probability, end the quarrel, but the possibility of a more serious outcome had to be faced. With a sigh and a heavy heart Peregrine went down to the saloon to compose a letter to his sister.
He was engaged on this difficult task when Mr. Bernard Taverner was shown into the room.
Peregrine looked up with a start, and quickly concealed his letter under a blank sheet of paper. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Good morning; did you come to see me or Judith? She’s out, shopping with Maria, you know.”
Mr. Taverner scrutinized him rather closely for a moment. He said, coming further into the room: “Then I am unfortunate. She mentioned the other day that she had an ambition to see Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, and I came to propose escorting her. But another morning will do as well. I am not interrupting you, I trust? You were busy, I think, when I came in.”
“Oh, not in the least; it is of no particular moment,” said Peregrine, stretching out his hand to pull the bell. “You’ll take a glass of wine, won’t you?”
“Thank you, a little sherry, if I may.”
The servant came, the order was given, and Peregrine begged his cousin to be seated. Mr. Taverner began to talk on a number of idle topics. Peregrine’s replies were delivered in a mechanical way; it was plain that his thoughts were elsewhere. When the wine had been brought, and the servant had gone away again, Mr. Taverner said in his quiet voice: “Forgive me, Perry, but has anything happened to put you out?”
Peregrine disclaimed at once, and tried to start some other topic for conversation. His cousin’s eyes were upon him, however, and he presently gave up the attempt to appear at his ease, and said with a jerky little laugh: “I see you have guessed it; my mind is occupied with another matter. I have certain dispositions to make. Well, you are a good fellow, Bernard: I can trust you. The fact is I am engaged to meet Farnaby to-morrow morning at—well, it’s no matter where.”