“Make yourself easy, my love: I will see him,” promised Lady Saltash.
But her ladyship was not called upon to see him. He did not come to Camden Place that morning, for Mr Ringwood had arrived in Bath by the night mail.
The mail coach having run punctually, he was set down at the White Hart a few minutes after ten o’clock, and found Lord Wrotham breakfasting. He joined him at this meal, as soon as he had shaved, and changed his travelling dress; and listened in stolid silence to the slightly disjointed account his lordship gave him of the imbroglio, which seemed hourly to be growing more complicated. A considerable part of George’s recital was naturally concerned with the behaviour of the Incomparable, but Mr Ringwood paid little heed to this. When he had heard George out, he grunted, and said: “Pack of gudgeons!”
“Who?” demanded George.
“You, and Sherry, and Ferdy,” replied Mr Ringwood. “Dashed if I don’t think Ferdy’s the worst of you! Take a look at that!”
He handed over Mr Fakenham’s letter to him, which George perused in gathering amazement. “Bosky, I dare say,” he remarked. “Who’s this fellow he believes to be at the bottom of Sherry’s coming to Bath? That’s all a hum! I don’t know why he came, but there wasn’t any plot about it. And how the devil does Duke come into it?”
“Lord, I don’t know!” said Mr Ringwood scornfully. “You don’t suppose I wasted my time asking him for the name of a fellow I’m not interested in, do you?”
“No, but I’d give something to know why Ferdy thinks someone is behind it all,” said George, pondering the problem. “Hasn’t said a word to me about it. Couldn’t be Revesby, could it? Don’t see how Ferdy came to forget his name, if it was. I’ll ask him.”
“You may do as you please: I’m going off to see Sherry,” said Mr Ringwood. “Where is he lodging?”
“In the Royal Crescent. He’s in the devil’s own temper, I warn you, Gil!”