“Good!” said Gideon heartlessly. “And strive to bear in mind that his Grace is more than twenty-four years old!”
Nettlebed cast him a look of reproach, and left him. Wragby, returning with a jug of hot water, said: “He’ll set ’em all by the ears, he will, sir, you mark my words! If he don’t have the Runners called out it’ll be a wonder!”
“He won’t do that.”
Wragby shook his head. “Fair set-about he is! I couldn’t help compassionating him.”
“He wants a lesson,” replied Gideon. “This should do them all good!”
Nettlebed, speeding back to Sale House, found that Mr. Scriven had arrived there, and, upon learning that nothing had been heard of the Duke since the previous morning, looked very grave, and said that Lord Lionel should instantly be informed. Chigwell then had the happy notion of running round to White’s, to enquire of the porter if his Grace had been seen in the club. The porter said that he had not set eyes on the Duke since he had dined at the club with Lord Gaywood, and, perceiving Chigwell seemed strangely chagrined, asked what had happened to put him so much out of countenance. At any ordinary time, Chigwell would have treated this curiosity in a dignified and quelling way, but his anxiety, coupled with a sleepless night, had robbed him of his poise. He told the porter that he feared his Grace had met with an accident, or fallen a victim to footpads. The porter was suitably shocked and sympathetic, and was soon in possession of all the facts of the story. Chigwell, recollecting himself, said that he was so much worried he hardly knew what he was about, but felt sure that he could trust the porter not to mention the matter. The porter assured him that he was not one to blab; and upon Chigwell’s departure, told one of the waiters that it looked like the young Duke of Sale had been murdered. He then asked every member who entered the club if he had heard the news of his Grace of Sale’s disappearance, so that in a remarkably short space of time a formidable number of persons were discussing the strange story, some taking the view that there was nothing in it, some postulating theories to account for the Duke’s disappearance, and others offering odds on the nature of his fate.
Chigwell, returning to Sale House, found that Captain Belper had called there in the hope of finding the Duke at home, and had of course been regaled by the porter with the story of his strange disappearance. He listened to it, at first with incredulity, and then with a look of dismay. In an agitated voice, he requested the agent-in-chief’s presence. When Scriven joined him in one of the smaller saloons on the ground floor of the mansion, he found him pacing the floor in great perturbation of spirit. Upon the agent’s entrance, he wheeled about, and said without preamble: “Scriven, this news has disturbed me prodigiously! I believe I may hold the answer tothe enigma!”
“Then I beg, sir,” said the agent calmly, “that you will tell me what it may be, for I must consider myself to be in some measure responsible for his Grace’s well-being, and—I must add—safety.”
“Scriven,” said Captain Belper impressively, “I was with the Duke when he purchased, at Manton’s, a pair of duelling pistols!”
They stared at one another, incredulity in Scriven’s face, a certain dramatic satisfaction in the Captain’s.