"Dashed good one," Peckover insisted.
"How can you pass him off," objected Quorn. "He'll say he is not Quorn."
"We've all said that," rejoined Peckover shrewdly. "All the same, one of us is that noble lord. We'll tell the duke that he is incog. for certain private reasons, and let 'em fight it out between themselves."
"If any one can tackle that little spit-fire it's Carnaby," said Gage.
"And if any one can hustle Carnaby it's the duke," added Quorn.
"Whichever way it goes we shall be gainers," observed Gage. "But how about Ulrica?"
"Oh, we'll work her into it all right," Peckover replied confidently. "Let's have the ruffian in and give him some pop."
"Hark!" cried Quorn, holding up his hand. As Gage opened the door there came across the hall from the library sounds suggestive of a domestic tornado. Their obvious message was that Mr. Carnaby Leo had discovered, and was resenting, the fact that he was more or less in durance, and was communicating his state of feelings through the medium of double-soled boots to the furniture in general and to the mahogany door in particular.
"Let's buck up, and release the brute before he wrecks the place," said Peckover; "or he'll have no kick left in him for that Spanish beauty."
He walked boldly to the door, and threw it open. "Anything wrong?" he inquired, with what was, under the circumstances, an irritating blandness.