“I’m obliged to you,” said Gideon. “But I find my faith in you less securely rooted, Mr. Liversedge. I don’t believe, for instance, that you have it in your power to make me lose such a bet.”
Mr. Liversedge looked reproachful. “It pains me, sir, to encounter mistrust in one with whom I have been so frank. I might add, in one whom I am anxious to benefit. Or should I have told you at the outset that his Grace is at the moment sojourning at a little place quite in the heart of our delightful countryside? When I had the honour of seeing him last, he was wearing an olive riding-coat of excellent tailoring, and a drab Benjamin over it, with four capes. He had a handsome timepiece in his pocket, too; with his crest engraved upon the back, and his initials upon the front. He sighed. “Perhaps I should have brought it to you, sir, but anything savouring of common thievery is very distasteful to me. However, I daresay you may recognize this exquisitely embroidered handkerchief.” He dived a hand into his pocket as he spoke, and produced Gilly’s bloodstained handkerchief.
Gideon took it from him, and for a moment stood staring down at it, his face very pale, and the lines about his mouth and jaw suddenly accentuated. The stains had grown brown, but Gideon knew bloodstains when he saw them, and his gorge rose. He laid the handkerchief down, his long fingers quivering, and raised his head, and looked at Mr. Liversedge. Mr. Liversedge had known from the moment that he had mentioned the olive coat that he had struck home. He had not failed to remark that betraying quiver of the fingers. He smiled indulgently; he would have been excited himself, he reflected, if he realized all at once, as Captain Ware had, how close he stood to a Dukedom. Then he met the Captain’s eyes, and in the very short space of time granted him for rumination he thought that they blazed with the strangest light he had ever seen in a fellow-creature’s eyes. He had even a sensation of being scorched, which was perhaps not surprising, since Gideon was seeing him through a hot, red mist.
The next instant, Mr. Liversedge, no puny figure, had been plucked from his seat, and two iron hands were throttling him remorselessly, shaking him savagely as they did so. While he tore desperately at them, his starting eyes stared up in filming horror into a face dark with rage, with lips curling back from close-shut teeth, and nostrils terrifyingly distended. Before his vision failed, Mr. Liversedge read murder in this face, and knew that for once in his life his judgment had been at fault. Then, as his eyes threatened to burst from their sockets, and his tongue was forced out between his lips, he saw and knew nothing more. As he lost consciousness Gideon cast him from him, and he fell in an inert heap on to the floor.
Chapter XVI
The noise of Mr. Liversedge’s fall brought Wragby swiftly upon the scene. He found his master brushing his hands together, as though to rid them of some lingering dirt and his master’s guest lying on the floor. He betrayed no particular surprise at this unusual scene, but casting an experienced eye over Mr. Liversedge remarked: “Well, it looks like you dished him up, sir. It’s bellows to mend with him sure enough. But what I ask you, sir, is, how am I to get rid of him, if you’ve killed him? Too hasty, that’s what you are!”
“I haven’t,” Gideon said shortly. “At least—Here, get some water, and throw it over him! I don’t want him dead!”
“Pity you didn’t think of that afore, sir,” said Wragby severely. “Nice sort of bobbery to be going on in a gentleman’s chambers!”
He left the room, returning in a minute or two with a jug of water, which he emptied generously over Mr. Liversedge’s countenance. “It seems a waste,” he said, “but I don’t know but what we hadn’t better put a ball-of-fire down his gullet.”
Gideon strode over to the sideboard, and poured out some brandy. “Not dead, is he?”