"Your son, Sir Percival—I received no note from him!" I replied, in utter bewilderment. "If Miss Chalcot is indisposed——"
"Do not dare to name Miss Chalcot, fellow! She is by this time in France."
"In France?" I repeated faintly, and with a sinking heart.
"Yes; and beyond the reach of beggarly adventurers and chevaliers d'industrie."
(So the letter had been a forgery by the brother—a lure for me.)
"Listen to me, sir, and attend," said the old man, gravely and calmly, "for it is the last time I shall ever degrade myself by addressing so contemptible a trickster!"
"Trickster, Sir Percival!" I exclaimed. "Your injurious language——"
"I said trickster," he continued, with a mock bow. "All has now been discovered; the secret meetings in the Park, the artful plans you have laid to worm yourself into the affections of a silly and wealthy young girl, luring her heart from the man—the gentleman, I mean—she is to marry; causing the delay of that marriage; making scandal and gossip even among the menials of my own household. Miss Chalcot, sir, has been sent to the Continent, and I hereby inform you that if you venture to follow, to trace, to speak with, or to write to her, THIS is but a small instalment of what is in store for you!"
And ere I could think or act, the savagely-proud old man had snatched up a heavy riding-whip that lay at hand, and dealt me two severe cuts fairly across the face, almost laying it open, as if with a sword blade.
"Madman!" I exclaimed; "dare you strike me?"