He whom the Punjaub knew as the Sword of the Evil One, but who held in polite society the title of Lord Kergenven, drank some hock slowly, and murmured as his sole quota to the conversation, very lazily and languidly:
“Bet you he isn't dead at all.”
“The deuce you do? And why?” chorused the table; “when a fellow's body's found with all his traps round him!”
“I don't believe he's dead,” murmured Kergenven with closed, slumberous eyes.
“But why? Have you heard anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Why do you say he's alive, then?”
My lord lifted his brows ever so little.
“I think so, that's all.”
“But you must have a reason, Ker?”