The other, his face scarlet, stared at him with bloodshot eyes of irritable inquiry. He struck his boot with his whip, savagely, once, twice, thrice:
“Well—what’s the cursed melodrama now?”
“Your son has been found, early this morning. He has fallen—it is thought—he was killed in a street brawl—last night—and has lain where he fell till this morning. It is suspected that there has been foul play.” The old lawyer’s chin dropped on his chest: “God forgive the poor boy his many sins and weaknesses!”
When the old gentleman roused from his mood and put on his hat, the red anger of his lord had slowly turned to black hate; and the lawyer waited in a strange wonder—a wonder as to what could be passing through this harsh old brain at such a moment——
The black mood found tongue at last:
“By God,” said Lord Wyntwarde hoarsely, and struck the air with his clenched hand, “Caroline and her cub get the estates after all!” He laughed bitterly. “The devil has cheated me—Death plays with loaded dice.... No, by God, I have it”—he laughed loud—“I’ll baulk them yet—I’ll marry this fifteen-year-old she-dog myself. By the splendour of God, my coachman shall give her ladyship away, and yonder groom shall be my best man.”
He burst into a loud roar of coarse laughter—suddenly gasped—struggled for air—reeled—put out his hands as though blindness had come upon him—uttered a foul curse, lurched forward, and fell upon his face.
They lifted him up....
Lord Wyntewarde’s life had been one long implied boast of blood. Indeed, he had never realized that he had had too much. The blood of the family had always gone to the head....
The grooms being fore-gathered in the harness-room that night plumbed the deeps of the dead man: