"She is, though, by George," was the blunt answer. "Only, of course, she hasn't got the hold on him she would have on you. And that's where Carnaby comes in."
Quorn looked at him searchingly, but was fain to accept the statement. Besides which, it tallied with his idea of the Leonine methods. "Well, that's a queer go," he said, and then fell into a puzzled silence. Presently he burst out with a question, not unnatural under the circumstances. "Who the devil is the thief who has the cheek to call himself Lord Quorn?"
Peckover shrugged. "For aught I know to the contrary he is Lord Quorn," he replied blandly.
"Rats!" cried the dispossessed one wrathfully. "It's a put-up job between you and him."
"My good sir——"
"You know he's not Lord Quorn, and you know I am."
"I've told you already, not being in the know of the Heralds' College, I'm not in a position to say anything about it."
"Aren't you?" sneered Quorn. "I know all about it, though. When I drank that loaded stuff that sent me to sleep that was your chance, and you took it."
"Did I?"
"You did. And I don't blame you. But I've woke up now."