They found the butler arranging decanters on a table in the Crimson Saloon and Lord Bedlington fidgeting in front of the fire. He started forward as Carlyon came into the room, exclaiming, “Carlyon, what is this terrible business? I came at once—though I could ill be spared! I was never more shocked in my life! And I must tell you that I wonder at your not having advised me immediately of the event! Oh, how d’ye do, John!”
“I called at your house in town, but was so unfortunate as to find you away from home,” said Carlyon, shaking hands. “So I wrote you a letter which I fancy will reach your house tomorrow. Tell me, from what source” did you learn of Eustace’s death?”
The round blue eyes stared at him. There was a perceptible pause before Bedlington replied testily, “How can one tell how such news may get about?”
“I cannot, certainly. Where did you learn it, sir?”
“My poor nephew’s valet told my man. It will be all over town by now! But how did it happen? What accident befell Eustace? Some talk of a brawl in an inn! I came to you to hear the truth!”
“You shall do so, but you may believe that the truth is as painful to me to relate as it will be to you to hear. Eustace met his death at my brother Nicky’s hands.”
“Carlyon!” gasped Bedlington, falling back a pace and grasping at a chair back to steady himself. “My God, has it come to this?”
“Has what come to this?” demanded John, bristling.
Thus challenged, his lordship sought refuge in his handkerchief, and uttered in broken accents that he would never have believed such a thing.
“Believed such a thing as what?” pursued John, remorselessly adhering to his sledge-hammer tactics.