John heaved himself up out of his chair, staring. “Ned! You mean you believe Bedlington—You think that De Castres told Bedlington—It’s not possible!”
“No, that was not what was in my mind,” Carlyon replied. “I was thinking of one whom I know to be a close friend of De Castres.”
“Francis Cheviot! That frippery dandy!”
“Well, the thought cannot but occur to one,” Carlyon said. “He is Bedlington’s son—and here we have Bedlington, twenty-four hours before he should be in Sussex.”
“Yes, I know, but—a fellow who cares for nothing but the set of his cravat and the blend of his snuff!”
“Ah!” said Carlyon pensively. “But I recall that upon at least three occasions in the past I have found Francis Cheviot by no means lacking in intelligence. In fact, my dear John, I would never underrate him as an opponent. I have known him to be—quite amazingly ruthless when he has set out to attain his own ends.”
“I would not have credited it! Of course, you have been better acquainted with him than I ever was. I cannot stand the fellow!”
“Nor I,” said Carlyon. “Were you not telling me that he had suffered severe losses over the gaming table?”
“Yes, so I believe. He plays devilish high—but one must be just, even to Francis Cheviot, you know, and he did inherit his mother’s fortune! Not but what I should doubt whether it can have been handsome enough to stand—But this is to no purpose, Ned!”
“Very true. Let us go and welcome our guest!”