“There are many buttons alike,” said the Chamberlain. Then he checked himself abruptly and—“Well, damn it! I'll allow it's mine,” said he.
“I should expect just this charming degree of manly frankness from monsieur. A button is a button, too, and a devilish serious thing when, say, off a foil.”
He still held out the accusation on his open hand, and bowed with his eyes on those of the other man.
At that MacTaggart lightly struck up the hand, and the button rolled twinkling along the floor.
Count Victor glanced quickly round him to see that no one noticed. The hall, but for some domestics, was left wholly to themselves. The ball was over, the company had long gone, and he had managed to stay his own departure by an interest feigned in the old armour that hung, with all its gallant use accomplished, on the walls, followed by a game at cards with three of the ducal entourage, two of whom had just departed. The melancholy of early morning in a banquet-room had settled down, and all the candles guttered in the draught of doors.
“I fancy monsieur will agree that this is a business calling for the open air,” said Count Victor, no way disturbed by the rudeness. “I abhor the stench of hot grease.”
“To-morrow—” began the Chamberlain, and Count Victor interrupted.
“To-morrow,” said he, “is for reflection; to-day is for deeds. Look! it will be totally clear in a little.”
“I'm the last man who would spoil the prospect of a ploy,” said the Chamberlain, changing his Highland sword for one of the rapiers on the wall that was more in conformity with the Frenchman's weapon; “and yet this is scarcely the way to find your Drimdarroch.”
“Mais oui! Our Drimdarroch can afford to wait his turn. Drimdarroch is wholly my affair; this is partly Doom's, though I, it seems, was made the poor excuse for your inexplicable insolence.”