“A dead Jacobite?” screamed Lady Dacres shrilly; “you make me faint! Here man, another glass of what-d’-ye-call-it?—hypocrite?” and she drank it with a sigh, fanning herself.
Spencer frowned, rising and walking to the window, and apparently looking out into the black night beyond. The landlord, taking advantage of his opportunity, slid out of the door with alacrity.
“There has been a duel, madam,” explained Radcliffe, shuffling the cards, “in the long meadow—and the provost-marshal may look into it later.”
“Dear, dear,” simpered Lady Sunderland, looking over her cards, “was any one killed? I’ll raise the wager to nine shillings—oh, la—the doctor has a mourneval!” she added, aside to Lady Dacres.
“A young Irishman, Trevor, was desperately wounded,” replied Radcliffe; “a splendid swordsman, but his blade broke.”
“What!” exclaimed Lady Sunderland, “that charming young man?” she shook her head mournfully; “his legs were beautifully symmetrical.”
“Did he lose one?” tittered Lady Dacres, clutching at her cards with greedy fingers; “you said nine shillings more?”
Lady Sunderland nodded; she held three kings and hoped to win. “The doctor has Tiddy and Towser both,” she whispered behind her fan.
At the moment, Betty came into the room. Her face was pale but she showed no signs of the tempest.
“He had an ugly wound, madam,” Dr. Radcliffe said, playing a card leisurely; “his chances of life amount to that,” the physician made a significant gesture.