Carlyon opened his snuffbox and took a meditative pinch. “Then I fancy he must have been young De Castres,” he said.
Nicky sat up. “What, Louis de Castres?” he exclaimed. “But, Ned, he is quite the thing! Why, you may meet him everywhere!”
“Very true. Mrs. Cheviot seems even to have met him here.”
“No, dash it, Ned, he is not the kind of loose screw to be breaking into houses at dead of night! Because the story he told Cousin Elinor was a pack of lies! You do not know the whole yet!”
“Well, I may be mistaken,” Carlyon said. “I merely suppose it may have been he from the fact of my having once or twice seen him in Cheviot’s company.”
“Good God, I should not have thought he would have made a friend of a fellow like Eustace!” said Nicky, quite shocked. “I believe him to be tolerably well acquainted with Francis Cheviot, but there’s nothing in that, after all! I don’t care for Francis myself, but he is very good ton —all the crack, in fact!”
The door opened to admit Barrow who came in with a tray which he set down on the table at Miss Beccles’ elbow.
“Barrow,” said Carlyon, “do you know the name of any Frenchman whom Mr. Cheviot may have been acquainted with?”
“I did hear what his name was, my lord,” admitted Barrow. “But I didn’t take no account of it, not holding with Frenchies.”
“Was it De Castres?”