They entered Bath towards evening on the second day, the dowager’s coach bowling along considerably ahead of the curricle, which had stopped for an unseasonable length of time at a certain hostelry a few miles outside the town. Lady Sheringham had hired a palatial suite of apartments on the Royal Crescent, so Sherry, sweeping into Belmont from Guinea Lane, bore sharp right into Bennet Street, which led into the Circus, past the New Assembly Rooms. It was in the middle of this crowded thoroughfare, just as the nicest precision of eye was required to negotiate the passage between a hackney carriage, drawn up on the left of the road, and a perch phaeton being driven towards him by a down-the-road looking man in a many-caped greatcoat, that Sherry caught sight of his wife, walking along with her hand on Lord Wrotham’s arm.
A violent expletive broke from him, and an equally violent start. He jerked his head round, heedless of the phaeton, and the next instant the wheels of both vehicles were locked, and much more violent expletives were issuing from the lips of the down-the-road man.
Since all the horses were plunging in sudden fright, and there was an ominous sound of splintering wood, Sherry was obliged to give his attention where it was most urgently required. By the time the carriages had been disengaged, thanks largely to the efforts of Jason, who had lost not a moment in leaping down from his perch, and running to the heads of his master’s pair, Hero and George had disappeared into Russell Street. Sherry, paying no heed at all to the justifiably incensed remarks being addressed to him by the phaeton’s owner, thrust the reins into his cousin’s hands, and, with a brief admonition to him to “settle with this fellow”, sprang down from the curricle, narrowly avoided being knocked down by a tilbury, fell foul of a couple of chairmen whose load was impeding his passage, reached the other side of the street, and set off with great strides towards Russell Street. He was too late. When he reached the turning there was no sign of his quarry, and after taking a few paces up the street he paused, realizing the futility of hunting through all the roads in the vicinity. He turned and went back, becoming aware on the way that his singular behavior had attracted no little attention to himself. He found, too, that he was still carrying his driving-whip, and had the sight of Lord Wrotham, bending solicitously over Hero, not filled him with murderous rage he must have grinned to think of the comic spectacle he presented.
He found Ferdy making his apologies with winning grace, and offering, on his behalf, to pay for the necessary repairs to the phaeton. The phaeton’s owner was already a little mollified, and everything might have been settled comfortably over a third of daffy, as Ferdy was on the point of suggesting, had not the Viscount nipped such friendly overtures in the bud by scowling upon his victim, offering him the curtest of apologies, handing him his card, climbing into his curricle, and driving off without another word.
“Really, Sherry, dear old boy!” expostulated Ferdy. “No need to go off like this! Very pleasant fellow!”
“Did you see who that was?” Sherry demanded.
The late accident had temporarily put everything else out of Ferdy’s head, but these words recalled him to a sense of his own surprise. “Yes, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “Dashed if I could believe my eyes! George! You see him too, Sherry?”
Sherry audibly ground his teeth. “Do you think I’m blind? I saw him, and what’s more I saw who was walking on his arm! My wife!”
“Lady Sheringham?” said Ferdy cautiously.
“Yes, you fool!”