“Markham knows something of you?” Robin was frowning. “That letter?”
My lord raised his eyes. “My son, you have a little of my swiftness of apprehension. He had that letter of which I told you. How he came by it I do not know. I admit it freely: I do not know. It is entirely unimportant, or I should have found out. He brought it to my rooms. He demanded money.” His lordship laughed at the thought. “He was very clever, no doubt, but he did not know that he had chosen a man of supernatural parts for adversary. He showed me my own letter; he told me he knew me for Colney, and I am sure he expected to see me in a palsy of fear.”
A smile flitted across Robin’s face. There was a light in his eyes which made his resemblance to his father very strong. “I dare swear he was disappointed, sir.”
“I fear so, I fear so, my Robin. And was I afraid? Was there fear beneath my sangfroid? No, my son! There was a relief quite enormous. At last I knew where my letter was to be found. I do not fear the danger I can see. My Munich friend — his manners appal me; I am aghast at such a lack of polish! — had delivered himself into my hands.”
“Lord, the man’s a fool!” said Robin. “But, troth, he doesn’t know you, sir!”
“No one knows me,” said my lord austerely. “But might he not have descried that in my bearing which speaks greatness? No, he was absorbed in the admiration of his own poor wits. I descended to crush one infinitely inferior to me, and he could not even appreciate the manner in which it was done. I could wish him worthier of my enmity. Observe, my son, the deficiencies in his intelligence! He thought to obtain a promise in writing from me to pay him untold gold on the day when I am acknowledged to be Tremaine of Barham!”
“H’m!” said Robin. “An optimistic gentleman. And you said?”
“I had to open his eyes. I dispelled the illusion. A plan so subtle that almost it took my breath away formed itself in my brain. You remember, my son, those papers I told you I held?”
“Good God!” said Robin. His father began seriously to alarm him. “I remember.”
“There was one written by — you would never guess — that foolish Humphrey Grayson. A trifle: half promises which he never fulfilled. But enough for my purpose.”