“Captain Ryecroft! Who—what is he?”
“An officer of Hussars—a fine-looking fellow—sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I’ve said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. Helas! I can fancy seeing them now—at play over yonder, on the lawn!”
“Captain Ryecroft!” repeats Murdock, musingly; “I never saw—never heard of the man!”
“You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he’s among those gay toxophilites—Ha! no, he’s nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, ‘speak of the fiend.’ There’s your fiend, Monsieur Murdock!”
He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.
“Which?” asks Murdock, mechanically.
“He with the chapeau blanc. That’s whom you have to fear. The other’s but the waterman Wingate—honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear—unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, mes amis! Under that conspicuous kepi you behold the future lord of Llangorren.”
“Never!” exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. “Never!”
The French priest and ci-devant French courtesan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.
“You speak excitedly, M’sieu,” says the priest, “emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?”