You may be sure that Pierre Koustak paid many a visit to the keyhole to be assured that the strangers were still there, and did not appear to have any burglarious intentions on the treasures of the Manor of Varenac.
Sir Stephen's luck was in that evening. The pile of gold crowns grew by his side. The wine in these dusty cellars, too, was excellent, though old Goaty evidently found it a difficult task to bring bottle after bottle in.
Sir Stephen, therefore, considering all things, was merry.
My Lord Denningham, on the other hand, considering all things, was very sour of mood.
To begin with, the latter's luck was abominable. The dice were certainly bewitched—or cursed. To go on with, he was angry at not finding Morice Conyers here.
He had come to France to win for himself a name for zeal in the cause of liberty, which would raise him to prominence amongst his fellow-members in that London Corresponding Society which had for its object the stirring up of the English people into a sister Revolution.
This zeal fell decidedly flat in a tête-à-tête gamble with Sir Stephen Berrington.
The latter's fatuous laugh irritated him, as did his noisy triumph over his winnings. The jingling of lost gold jarred on my lord's delicate nerves.
[Transcriber's note: page 175 was missing from source book]
[Transcriber's note: page 176 was missing from source book]