“I demand to see that letter!” barked the Major.
Sir Richard folded the sheet, and slipped it into his inner pocket. “Be content, sir: my cousin has not eloped with your daughter.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“If you mean to give me the lie—” Sir Richard checked himself, and turned to the abigail. “When did Mr Brown leave this place?”
“I don’t know, sir. But Parks was downstairs—the waiter, sir.”
“Fetch him.”
“If your cousin has not gone off with my daughter, show me that letter!” demanded the Major.
The Honourable Cedric let his hand fall from Sir Richard’s shoulder, and strolled into the middle of the room, an expression of disdain upon his aristocratic countenance. “You, sir—Daubenay, or whatever your name may be—I don’t know what maggot’s got into your head, but damme, I’m tired of it! For the lord’s sake, go away!”
“I shall not stir from this room until I know the truth!” declared the Major. “I should not be surprised if I found that you were both in league with that young whipper-snapper!”
“Damme, there’s something devilish queer about the air of this place!” said Cedric. “It’s my belief you’re all mad!”