Here ensued a moment of stupefied silence, a stillness wherein none moved for a space; suddenly my lord’s chair went over with a crash, his clenched fists smote the air. “Lock the door, Amberley, lock the door,” he commanded in choking voice, “and give me a whip, somebody!”
“A whip?” repeated Sir John, faintly surprised. “Nay, sir, you have a sword, sure? And rumour says you can use it. Come, pray let us try what you can do, though first we will ask the child here to be good enough to leave us awhile——”
“Ha, leave us, is it?” snarled my lord. “Damme, no; I say the handsome baggage shall stay to see you squirm! The table, gentlemen ... give me room!”
Very soon, sufficient space having been cleared to satisfy his lordship, he tugged off the sky-blue coat, tossed it aside, kicked off his shoes and, laughing in arrogant assurance, drew his sword and stood waiting. Sir John made his dispositions with a leisured ease that set my lord swearing in vicious impatience, while his friends snuffed, nodded and watched the victim prepare himself for the inevitable outcome with more or less sympathy; in especial one, a long-legged, sleepy gentleman who, unheeding Lord Sayle’s angry glare, approached Sir John and bowed.
“Sir,” said he, “m’ name’s Amberley. It seems y’ave no friend t’act for ye in case of—ah—of——”
“My sudden demise?” smiled Sir John.
“Precisely, sir. If you should wish any message d’livered t’any one—any commission o’ the kind, shall be happy t’offer myself—name of Amberley, sir.”
“Mr. Amberley, pray receive my thanks, but I have no message for any one——”
“Damnation!” cried my lord. “Is he ready, Amberley?”