Of his uncle during these latter years Burgo had seen but little. The English climate disagreed with the baronet's health, or so he averred, and three-fourths of his time was spent abroad. He was a confirmed numismatist and an inveterate bric-à-brac hunter. He was said to have one of the finest collections of coins in the three kingdoms, and his house at Oaklands overflowed with curios picked up from every country under the sun. That such a man at the mature age of sixty-three should fall a victim to the shafts of Dan Cupid was one of the last things which any one who was acquainted with Sir Everard Clinton would have predicated of him.
[CHAPTER II.]
CAPTAIN CUSDEN'S REPORT.
In the Times newspaper of the following morning Burgo read a confirmation of his uncle's marriage. "There's a suspiciously Italian flavour about the bride's baptismal name," he muttered to himself; "but who was the late Colonel Innes, I wonder?"
In the course of the afternoon he knocked at Mrs. Mordaunt's door.
"Not at home, sir."
Many an afternoon had he called there, but never before had such a missile been flung at his head. His face flushed a little when he saw Lord Penwhistle's miniature brougham being driven slowly up and down the street.
Two days later he called again, only to be repulsed with the same polite fiction.
Each afternoon he lingered in the Park till the last moment, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Clara's sunny face; but all his lingering was in vain. A week later he heard through a mutual acquaintance that Mrs. Mordaunt and Miss Leslie had started for the Continent.
But before this took place the cards of the newly-wedded pair had reached Burgo. He tore them up in a pet and threw them into the fire. The same day, in sheer recklessness, he drove down to Richmond with some club acquaintances who belonged to a faster set than he habitually consorted with. There he drank more champagne and smoked more cigars than was good for him, and awoke next morning with a splitting headache.