She spread out her hands. “But, Grandpère, naturally! And I have often wanted to know what it was that he did that was so entirely wicked that no one must speak of him. It is a mystery, and, I think, very romantic.”
“There is no mystery,” said Shield, “nor is it in the least romantic. Ludovic was a wild young man who crowned a series of follies with murder, and had in consequence to fly the country.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Eustacie. “ Voyons, do you mean he killed someone in a duel?”
“No. Not in a duel.”
“But, Tristram,” said the Beau gently, “you must not forget that it was never proved that Ludovic was the man who shot Matthew Plunkett. For my part I did not believe it possible then, and I still do not.”
“Very handsome of you, but the circumstances were too damning,” replied Shield. “Remember that I myself heard the shot that must have killed Plunkett not ten minutes after I had parted from Ludovic.”
“But I,” said the Beau, languidly polishing his quizzing-glass, “prefer to believe Ludovic’s own story, that it was an owl he shot at.”
“Shot—but missed!” said Shield. “Yet I have watched Ludovic shoot the pips out of a playing-card at twenty yards.”
“Oh, admitted, Tristram, admitted, but on that particular night I think Ludovic was not entirely sober, was he?”
Eustacie struck her hands together impatiently. “But tell me, one of you! What did he do, my cousin Ludovic?”