“A greater than your lordship?” inquired Mr. Caryll blandly, masking the rage that seethed in him.
His lordship laughed. “Ye're a wag, Mr. Caryll—a damned wag!” Then reverting to the matter that was uppermost in his mind. “'Tis a fact, though—'pon honor. My father would ha' broke me. Luckily she died.”
“Who died?” asked Mr. Caryll, with a show of interest.
“The girl. Did I not tell you there was a girl? 'Twas she was the folly—Antoinette de Maligny. But she died—most opportunely, egad! 'Twas a very damned mercy that she did. It—cut the—the—what d'ye call it—knot?”
“The Gordian knot?” suggested Mr. Caryll.
“Ay—the Gordian knot. Had she lived and had my father smoked the affair—Gad! he would ha' broke me; he would so!” he repeated, and emptied his glass.
Mr. Caryll, white to the lips, sat very still a moment. Then he did a curious thing; did it with a curious suddenness. He took a knife from the table, and hacked off the lowest button from his coat. This he pushed across the board to his father.
“To turn to other matters,” said he; “there is the letter you were expecting from abroad.”
“Eh? What?” Lord Ostermore took up the button. It was of silk, interwoven with gold thread. He turned it over in his fingers, looking at it with a heavy eye, and then at his guest. “Eh? Letter?” he muttered, puzzled.
“If your lordship will cut that open, you will see what his majesty has to propose.” He mentioned the king in a voice charged with suggestion, so that no doubt could linger on the score of the king he meant.