“For God’s sake, my lord, take care what you are about!” the doctor muttered, restraining him.
“But he will have to stand his trial!” Eustace gasped. “Your pride won’t stomach that, whatever the event!”
“No,” Carlyon agreed. “Both my schemes and yours have miscarried. You would see your estate safe from my machinations; I would save Nicky from yours, if I could. Well, I do not value Highnoons above Nicky. I will let it go.”
Cheviot glared at him, his befogged brain only half comprehending what was said to him, clinging obstinately to its one idea. “How? How?” he panted.
“You may be married, here and now, and bequeath Highnoons to your wife.”
Cheviot frowned, as though trying to concentrate his wits. “How will that serve you?” he asked suspiciously.
“It will serve me.”
“And you will not step into my shoes?”
“I shall not step into your shoes.”
“I’ll do it!” Cheviot said, plucking at the sheet. “Yes, I’ll do it! I don’t care about Nick. I’ll die happy to think I’ve foiled you!”