"Dalroyd is—Dalroyd, sir. Everyone knows him in town—at White's, Lockett's, the Coca Tree, O Dalroyd is known everywhere."
"What d'you know of him, personally?"
"That he's reputed to play devilish high and to be a redoubtable duellist with more than one death on his hands and—er—little beyond. But Ben knows him, 'twas Ben introduced him, ask Ben, sir. But what of him?"
"Just this, Tom, if there is another person in the world who knows of my Lord Medhurst's present hiding-place 'tis Mr. Dalroyd and if there is one man in the world I do not trust it is—Mr. Dalroyd."
The Viscount sat down, swallowed a glass of wine and stared blankly at the toe of his dusty riding-boot.
"Why then, sir," said he at last, "this makes it but the more imperative to have Charles away at once. I must get him over to my place in Sussex, 'tis quiet there, sir—God! I must contrive it one way or another and the sooner the better, but how sir, how?"
"'None may give aid or shelter to the King's enemies on pain of death,' Tom," quoted the Major, gently.
The Viscount flicked a patch of dust from the skirts of his coat.
"Sir," said he, "Charles is my friend!"
"And—my lady's brother, Tom!"