“Do you know who he is?”
“You 'af 'eard 'im say—t'e lady's 'usband.”
“Aye—but his name,” cried Blake, quivering with anger. “Do you know that it is Wilding?”
The name certainly made an impression that might have flattered the man to whom it belonged. Feversham's whole manner changed; the trivial air of persiflage that he had adopted hitherto was gone on the instant, and his brow grew dark.
“T'at true?” he asked sharply. “Are you Mistaire Wildin'—Mistaire Antoine Wildin'?”
“Your lordship's most devoted servant,” said Wilding suavely, and made a leg.
Wentworth in the background paused in the act of reclosing the door to stare at this gentleman whose name Albemarle had rendered so excellently well known.
“And you to dare come 'ere?” thundered Feversham, thoroughly roused by the other's airy indifference. “You to dare come 'ere—into my ver' presence?”
Mr. Wilding smiled conciliatingly. “I came for my wife, my lord,” he reminded him. “It grieves me to intrude upon your lordship at so late an hour, and indeed it was far from my intent. I had hoped to overtake Sir Rowland before he reached you.”
“Nom de Dieu!” swore Feversham. “Ho! A so great effrontery!” He swung round upon Blake again. “Sare Rowlan',” he bade him angrily, “be so kind to tell me what 'appen in Breechwater—everyt'ing!”