“What’s that got to say to anything?” demanded Gaywood, bristling.
The thin man, knowing that his lordship’s temper was erratic, made haste to assure him that he had spoken quite idly. Lord Gaywood eyed him bodingly for a moment, and then transferred his attention to Captain Ware. “Out with it!” he recommended. “I’ll lay a monkey you’re in the secret, Gideon!”
“Not I!” Gideon said lightly. “I’m not Sale’s bear-leader.”
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Cliveden, disappointed. “We were looking for you to settle all bets, Ware! We made sure you would be bound to know the truth. Do you tell me you haven’t seen your cousin?”
“No,” Gideon said, yawning. “I’ve not seen him, and I don’t understand what all the pother is about. Perhaps Sale has gone off to Bath.”
“Not without his valet, or any baggage!” expostulated Mr. Cliveden, shocked.
“Oh, lord, what does it matter?” Gideon said.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Gaywood. “It’s a queer rig, ain’t it? The porter was telling me that Sale’s steward was here this morning, in the deuce of a pucker, asking if he had been in the club.”
“Very likely!” said Gideon, with his most sardonic smile. “Sale’s servants would run all over town seeking for him if he were half an hour late in returning to his house.”
A mild-looking man in the window here ventured to suggest that the Duke might have fallen a victim to footpads, or even to kidnappers, and would have embarked on a bitter dissertation of the shocking state of the London streets and the ineptitude of the Watch, had not Gideon interrupted him with a crack of scornful laughter. “Oh, a revival of Mohocks, no doubt!” he said. “My cousin’s body will in due course be recovered from the river. Or he may return from a day at the races, which would be sadly flat, but rather more probable.”