“He was drunk, you know,” Crosby said eagerly. “Perhaps I should not have heeded him. I daresay he will be sorry by now. I don’t—I don’t object to him being asked if he cares to apologize.”
Mr Puckleton shook his head. “He’d never do it,” he opined. “He’s fought two duels already, so I’m told.”
Mr Drelincourt gave a laugh that quivered uncertainly in the middle.”Well, I hope he mayn’t have sat up over the bottle last night.”
Mr Puckleton was inclined to think that even such a mad young buck as Winwood would not do that.
By this time they had reached the ground and Captain Forde had opened that sinister case. Reposing in a bed of velvet lay two shining swords, their blades gleaming wickedly in the pale sunlight.
“It still wants a few minutes to six,” observed the Captain. “I take it your man won’t be late?”
Mr Drelincourt stepped forward. “Late? I give you my word I don’t intend to wait upon his lordship’s convenience! If he does not come by six I shall assume he does not mean to meet me, and go back to town.”
Lord Cheston looked him over with a certain haughtiness. “Don’t put yourself about, sir: he’ll be here.”
From the edge of the clearing a view of the road could be obtained. Mr Drelincourt watched it in an agony of suspense, and as the moments dragged past began to feel almost hopeful.
But just as he was about to ask Puckleton the time (for he felt sure it must now be well over the hour), a gig came into sight, bowling at a fine rate down the road. It drew up at the gate which stood open on to the meadow and turned in.