“Your pardon, Mr. Wilton,” he said; “in what month?”
Mark replied promptly. Vane shook his head coolly, and returned—
“I was not in London; I was in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?” cried Mark, as if he could not believe his ears.
“In Oxford,” repeated Vane, slowly enunciating his words. “I give you my word such is the fact, and if the occasion to which you may refer be of importance to you, I will, in order to set you right on the matter, produce, within a few days, proofs that I am simply stating—what, as a gentleman, I have a claim my bare word should guarantee—the truth.”
Mark swallowed a glass of wine. He could say no more at present. He felt convinced that Vane was the man he had seen in companionship with those who had insulted Lotte, and he determined to pursue the subject until he had either proved him a liar and a debauchee, or confess that, in this instance at least, he was mis taken. He took the first opportunity of excusing himself, and left Vane alone.
Alone to reflect on his position, to examine carefully the opposition he should have to contend with, from what quarter it would proceed, what would be its power, and how it was to be crushed.
“I must learn more before I can proceed upon my course,” he muttered. “One thing is clear: this wilful beauty has given herself, heart and soul, to that fellow Vivian, and I have no other rival to fear. It will not be so difficult to dispose of him if I have time; I must have time. Yet my necessities push me on to a coup-de-main. I will wait and see what to-morrow brings forth. A day may do much. One thing I swear, if I fail she shall never have him—never, never.”
His face assumed a demoniacal aspect. It was but a moment only that it was so ruffled; he heard an approaching footstep, and his features became placid and serene, as though there raged not beneath emotions of carking anxieties, of dread solicitude, and almost despairing apprehension.