“Never,” interrupted Lord Lionel, “have I listened to such fustian rubbish! I declare I am vexed to death! And if my nephew were fool enough to do any such thing, which I do not admit, mark you! pray, do you suppose that his seconds would have left us in ignorance of the event? Or do you imagine that he entered upon such an affair without friends to act for him? I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that your apprehensions are woodheaded beyond permission!”
The Captain was not unnaturally abashed by this forthright speech. Before he could come about again, Nettlebed said urgently: “No, my lord, no! Not a duel! His Grace has been foully done to death by footpads! I know it! We shall never see him more!”
“He would go out at night unattended!” mourned Chigwell, wringing his hands.
Lord Lionel stared at them fixedly, and for quite a minute said nothing. Captain Belper was ill-advised enough to interpolate: “It is a matter for the Runners.”
A choleric eye was rolled towards him. Mr. Scriven said smoothly: “I could not feel that such a step should be taken without your lordship’s knowledge, however.”
“I am very much obliged to you!” said his lordship. “A fine dust you would have made, and all for nothing, I daresay! Where’s my son?”
“My lord, I went to Master Gideon—to the Captain, I should say—this morning, but he has not seen his Grace, nor he knows nothing of where he may be!” Nettlebed told him.
“H’m!” Lord Lionel brooded over this. “So he didn’t tell his cousin? I am of the opinion that he is up to some mischief, Scriven! When did he leave this house?”
“It was in the morning, my lord, quite early, I believe. He set out on foot, though Borrowdale here would have sent for his horse.”
“I begged his Grace to allow me to send a message to the stables,” corroborated the butler. “For seeing that his Grace was wearing top-boots and breeches, I assumed—”