“Dear me, Betty, come here and listen to this awful tale,” said Lady Sunderland; “your friend, Mr. Trevor, killed—oh, by the way, who did it, doctor?”
Lord Spencer had turned from the window.
“Savile,” he answered coldly, “and he did well. It seems he suspected him—thought him a disguised Jacobite and has called him out twice to kill him—this time he has probably done it. And now it is rumored that the fellow is one of those excepted in the late act of Parliament. The country is flooded with these rascals, constantly menacing its safety and the king’s life.”
“How romantic,” sighed Lady Sunderland, throwing her cards; “there,” she crowed, “three kings—Meg, I’ve got you!”
Lady Dacres replied by tossing her cards on the table with a scream of triumph.
“Oh, confound it!” cried Lady Sunderland furiously; “the hussy has a gleek of aces! You’re an old cheat, Meg!”
Lady Dacres laughed immoderately, gathering in the coin with eager fingers. The other old gambler eyed her with fury, her headdress quivering. Dr. Radcliffe, who knew it was the fashion to fleece the men at table, looked on indifferently, keeping up his talk with Spencer.
“I cannot see why Savile had to kill him for a Jacobite,” he remarked, deliberately taking snuff from an elaborate box with the arms of the Princess of Denmark on it; “the provost-marshal can see to them. We all know that the Habeas Corpus Act is suspended on account of the plots against the king’s life. Savile’s motive must have been more human than that, my lord.”
Spencer shrugged his shoulders.
“He was doing a high duty, sir,” he replied pompously, “he was ridding his country of a traitor. Savile’s a fine fellow.”