“It was absurd—a drunken fit of spleen, I am persuaded. His lordship took exception to the hat I wear at cards. His behaviour was most violent. In short, before I could know what he would be at he had torn the hat from my head. I could do no less than demand satisfaction, you’ll agree.”
“Certainly,” agreed Rule. “Er—I trust you are satisfied, Crosby?” Mr Drelincourt glared at him. His lordship crossed one leg over the other. “Strange how misinformed one may be!” he mused. “I was told—on what I thought credible authority—that Pelham threw a glass of wine in your face.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, as to that—his lordship was quite out of his senses, not accountable, you know.”
“So he did throw his wine in your face, Crosby?”
“Yes, oh yes! I have said, he was most violent, quite out of his senses.”
“One might almost suppose him to have been forcing a quarrel on you, might not one?” suggested Rule.
“I daresay, cousin. He was bent on picking a quarrel,” muttered Mr Drelincourt, fidgeting with his sling. “Had you been present you would know there was no doing anything with him.”
“My very dear Crosby, had I been present,” said Rule softly, “my well-meaning but misguided young relative would not have committed any of these assaults upon your person.”
“N-no, c-cousin?” stammered Mr Drelincourt.
“No,” said Rule, rising, and picking up his hat and stick. “He would have left the matter in my hands. And I, Crosby, should have used a cane, not a small-sword.”