“Ah, here’s your man!” said Captain Forde. “And six of the clock exactly!”
Any hopes that Mr Drelincourt still nursed were put to flight. The Viscount, with Sir Roland Pommeroy beside him, was driving the gig himself, and from the way in which he was handling a restive horse it was evident that he was not in the least fuddled by drink. He drew up on the edge of the clearing, and sprang down from the high perch.
“Not late, am I?” he said. “Servant, Puckleton, servant, Forde. Never saw such a perfect morning in my life.”
“Well, you don’t see many of ’em, Pel,” remarked Cheston, with a grin.
The Viscount laughed. His laughter sounded fiendish to Mr Drelincourt.
Sir Roland had picked the swords out of their velvet bed and was glancing down the blades.
“Nothing to choose between ’em,” said Cheston, strolling over to him.
The Captain tapped Mr Drelincourt on the shoulder. “Ready, sir? I’ll take your coat and wig.”
Mr Drelincourt was stripped of his coat and saw that the Viscount, already in his shirt-sleeves, had sat down on a tree-stump and was pulling off his top boots.
“Take a drop of cognac, Pel?” inquired Sir Roland, producing a flask. “Keep the cold out.”