“You may well ask, Peter. Fanshawe it was. Found our man at Galliano’s, and forced a quarrel on him.”
“Carslake tells me it all began as a jest, Bel,” pleaded Mr Devereux.
“Jest or no, Dev, the man had no business to meet Fanshawe till our little affair was settled. And so I shall tell Jessup.”
“But why did Sir Anthony — ?”
“Ah, that’s the question,” nodded Belfort. “I don’t know, but they do say he told Rensley he was a poltroon, and struck him in the face with his glove. Kestrel — he was there, y’know — will have it Tony was out for a fight from the first, but Orton thinks it all sprang up out of naught.”
An idea struck Mr Devereux. “’Pon my soul, Merriot, you might call Fanshawe out, so you might!”
Prudence laughed, and shook her head. “Oh, hold me excused! I count Sir Anthony very much my friend, in spite of this day’s work.”
Mr Belfort pondered it. “I don’t see that, Dev. No, I don’t see that he can do that. But as for meeting Rensley after this, it’s not to be thought of. Mind that, Peter! Not to be thought of!”
Prudence assumed an air of hesitation, and made some demur. It seemed safe. She was sternly over-ruled, but Mr Devereux said it did her credit. He went off with Mr Belfort to wait upon Mr Rensley’s seconds.
Prudence was left to make what she might of it. On the face of it, it looked as though the large gentleman had once more scared away the wolf. But why? That gave food for serious reflection. What did he suspect, forsooth? Or had he merely a mind to interpose on behalf of a boy for whom he had some kindness? She could not think he had pierced her disguise; faith, it was too good for that, surely! She went upstairs to Robin, and gave him the full sum of it.