“Begad, she’ll take her own course,” said the old man. “Miss Amory is a dev’lish wide-awake girl, sir, and must play her own cards; and I’m doosid glad you are out of it—doosid glad, begad. Who’s this smoking? Oh, it’s Mr. Strong again. He wants to put in his oar, I suppose. I tell you, don’t meddle in the business, Arthur.”
Strong began once or twice, as if to converse upon the subject, but the Major would not hear a word. He remarked on the moonlight on Apsley House, the weather, the cabstands—anything but that subject. He bowed stiffly to Strong, and clung to his nephew’s arm, as he turned down St. James’s Street, and again cautioned Pen to leave the affair alone. “It had like to have cost you so much, sir, that you may take my advice,” he said.
When Arthur came out of the hotel, Strong’s cloak and cigar were visible a few doors off. The jolly Chevalier laughed as they met. “I’m an old soldier, too,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you, Pendennis. I have heard of all that has happened, and all the chops and changes that have taken place during my absence. I congratulate you on your marriage, and I congratulate you on your escape, too,—you understand me. It was not my business to speak, but I know this, that a certain party is as arrant a little—well—well, never mind what. You acted like a man and a trump, and are well out of it.”
“I have no reason to complain,” said Pen. “I went back to beg and entreat poor Blanche to tell Foker all: I hope, for her sake, she will; but I fear not. There is but one policy, Strong, there is but one.”
“And lucky he that can stick to it,” said the Chevalier. “That rascal Morgan means mischief. He has been lurking about our chambers for the last two months: he has found out that poor mad devil Amory’s secret. He has been trying to discover where he was: he has been pumping Mr. Bolton, and making old Costigan drunk several times. He bribed the Inn porter to tell him when we came back: and he has got into Clavering’s service on the strength of his information. He will get very good pay for it, mark my words, the villain.”
“Where is Amory?” asked Pen.
“At Boulogne, I believe. I left him there, and warned him not to come back. I have broken with him, after a desperate quarrel, such as one might have expected with such a madman. And I’m glad to think that he is in my debt now, and that I have been the means of keeping him out of more harms than one.”
“He has lost all his winnings, I suppose,” said Pen.
“No: he is rather better than when he went away, or was a fortnight ago. He had extraordinary luck at Baden: broke the bank several nights, and was the fable of the place. He lied himself there with a fellow by the name of Bloundell, who gathered about him a society of all sorts of sharpers, male and female, Russians, Germans, French, English. Amory got so insolent, that I was obliged to thrash him one day within an inch of his life. I couldn’t help myself; the fellow has plenty of pluck, and I had nothing for it but to hit out.”
“And did he call you out?” said Pen.