“It is I, Richard Carvel, Mr. Manners,” I said shortly. I could not keep out the contempt from my tone. “I beg a word with you.”
In his condition then words were impossible. His teeth rattled again, and he trembled like a hare caught alive. I kept my hold of him, and employed the time until he should be more composed peering into the darkness. For all I knew Chartersea might be within ear-shot. But I could see nothing but black trunks of trees.
“What is it, Richard?”
“You are going to meet Chartersea,” I said.
He must have seen the futility of a lie, or else was scared out of all contrivance. “Yes,” he said weakly.
“You have allowed it to become the talk of London that this filthy nobleman is blackmailing you for your daughter,” I went on, without wasting words. “Tell me, is it, or is it not, true?”
As he did not answer, I retained a handful of the grained silk on his shoulder as a measure of precaution.
“Is this so?” I repeated.
“You must know, I suppose,” he said, under his breath, and with a note of sullenness.
“I must,” I said firmly. “The knowledge is the weapon need, for I, too, am going to meet Chartersea.”