"You may rely on my keeping my mouth shut," said Lord Quorn, giving a
tremendous yawn which for the moment seemed to cast a doubt upon his
ability in that direction.
"It doesn't much matter," Peckover responded mournfully. "Well," he
proceeded, with a touch of chastened self-glorification, "you must know
I've been flinging myself about in London."
"Painting the town red, eh?"
"Painting myself black, more like it," he retorted. "Very pleasant,
though, while it lasted. You see," he explained conceitedly, "I always
had ideas above my position, and some time back I thought I'd emerge
from the grub state and do a bit of butterflying."
Quorn nodded; so far in sympathy.
"But," continued Peckover, "to be a butterfly in town you want a lot of
dust on your wings; and when it comes to dressing a bit toffish,
treating your friends, especially the ladies--and they've been my
ruin"--he interjected with complacent self-reproach--"doing the Halls
regular, and tooling your best girl out to Richmond or the Welsh Harp
of a Sunday, why, five-and-thirty bob a week don't go far."
Lord Quorn shook his head sleepily, as being in complete, if drowsy,
accord with the estimate.
"That figure," Peckover declared impressively, "was my blessed screw
at--well, at an eminent firm of auctioneers. Things were looking a bit
bluish, a writ or two out against me, my tailor showed me no mercy, but
his patience got shorter even than his thirteen bob trousers, in which,
though too tight, as usual, I was ready to skip, when Jimmy Cutbush, a
friend of mine in the racing world, put me on to a good thing which
came off. Jimmy drew my winnings and paid them over to me, promising
plenty more tips of the same sort, till I began to understand how
Rothschild feels; but, what do you think?"
Lord Quorn was obviously not thinking anything worth mentioning just
then, but, roused by the intensity with which the question was put, he
rattled his ideas together and replied, "Ah, what?"
"Cutbush drew good money," said Peckover, knitting his brows, and
throwing into the statement all the impressiveness which a
five-and-thirty shilling clerk and voluptuary has at command, "and paid
me in bad; and there was I, swaggering about and paying my way, with a
lot of wrong 'uns in my pocket. That was pretty steep, eh?"
Words failed Lord Quorn, in his present condition, adequately to
characterize the situation; he contented himself by receiving it with
an absurd grimace which was intended as an effective substitute for
verbal comment.
"Well," pursued his companion, accepting the distortion of feature in
the spirit in which it was produced, "day before yesterday I drove down
to Kempton to round proper on my pal, having likewise backed Cockalorum
for the Great Comet Stakes."
"Did that come off?" Quorn inquired with an effort.
"No, but his jockey did, and landed me in a nice hole. Then when I
tackled Cutbush, all he had to say was to call me a Juggins, and ask me
what I took him for. 'Well,' I says naturally, 'I've won this oof, and
can't spend it'; 'well,' he says,'buy a moneybox and save it.' Then,
as if that wasn't enough, as I was driving home, rather down in my
luck, I had the misfortune to run over a noble duke in Piccadilly. His
Grace was in the middle of the road, looking for his balance, but of
course the police took his side--a duke is never drunk, only deaf.
Having left them my name and address, as well as my blessing, I drove
on, when suddenly my beast of a horse took it into his head to say his
prayers; result, both knees damaged. When I left the stables, after a
little friction with the proprietor, my landlady meets me and says I
had better not go home, as the police have been waiting for me all day.
Now you know why I am here."
Inspirited by realizing that his companion's personal narrative had
come to an end, Lord Quorn was able to rouse himself. "Hanged if you
aren't worse off than I am," he declared with a yawn. "Don't think I'd
change place with you. Rather run the risk of being chawed up by that
bush-devil. Well, what are you going to do?" he asked, with lethargic
sympathy. "Slip across the water?"
For a moment Peckover debated with himself whether he should declare
his expedient. To conclude that it would serve no practical end. "Oh,
I've got a proper way out of my troubles," he answered enigmatically.
"Glad to hear it," Quorn replied indifferently. "They are rather
unkind to people who enter into competition with the Mint, aren't they?
Well," he concluded, taken with a fresh access of yawning, "I hope
you'll give 'em the slip. Wish I could help you, but," he added
waggishly, as giving a cheerful wind-up to the somewhat depressing
mutual confidences; "you see it is more than I can do at present to
help myself."
To drive home his double meaning he reversed the empty bottle, and then
began sleepily to fill his pipe, humming a comic song the while.
"He's cut out for a lord," was Peckover's mental comment as he sat
watching his companion with some contempt. He was perhaps a little
disgusted and disappointed that the story of his chapter of ill-luck
and present critical position should have had no deeper or more lasting
effect upon the man who had been so glad of his hospitality. Peer or
no peer, he might know better than to sing "Peculiar Julia" by way of
dirge for one whose minutes of life, or at any rate, liberty, was
numbered. So he sat in disgust, watching the drowsy nobleman strike a
match, and being too sleepy to apply it to his pipe, hold it, nodding,
till the flame touched his fingers and brought him to with a start and
a smothered word of objurgation. "A pretty addition to the peerage,"
he muttered with a sneer. "Lord Quorn, indeed! A fellow who hadn't
the sense to keep awake when he had a lighted match in his hand. And
here was Percy Peckover--" Suddenly a circumstance which the
companionship had driven out of his mind recurred to him. Both the
landlord and his daughter had called him my lord. It had seemed a
feeble provincial joke, but it was now in a flash made intelligible.
"Of course," he exclaimed under his breath as he started up at the
thought, "I understand now. They have been taking me for him. That's
what they meant by their silly my-lording. And if that's the case, why
shouldn't they go on taking him for me! If they only would till I can
get clear out of this, I might give that precious detective the slip
and get clean away."
With eyes full of the hopeful project he stood looking at the noble
slumberer, then suddenly turned and tip-toed to the door.
Quiet as it was, the movement half roused Quorn. "Jul-i-ah, Jul-i-ah!
Why are you so very pecu-li-ah?" he sang sleepily.
Peckover stopped and looked back. "I'll try it," he muttered. "It's a
bold stroke, but--where's that mug of a landlord?" He opened the door
softly, and stole out.
A sudden gust caught the window, and the rattle woke Quorn with a
start. He sat up, staring round stupidly, and found himself alone and
thirsty with a full glass of champagne on the table before him. He
stared at it, then round the room again.
"Gone?" he exclaimed. "Flash little coiner chap gone? Sin to waste
good liquor." With the word he took up the wine and tossed it off;
then set down the glass with a wry face. "Queer brand!" he ejaculated.
"Faugh! Filthy stuff--or else----" He got up with a shiver of
disgust, and faced the doorway just in time to see his late companion
peep in. "I say, Mr. Ooff-merchant!" he called out, pointing to the
empty glass, "What's the matter with this stuff?"
Occupied with the strange chance of escape, Peckover had for the moment
forgotten all about his drugged wine. As his eye followed Quorn's
unsteady finger, he went cold, and his knees knocked together. In a
flash he saw his effective way of escape cut off and--what was
worse--his own predicament intensified a thousand-fold. "You've never
drunk that?" he gasped, when his dry tongue could articulate.
"I have though," Quorn replied, regarding him with fearful suspicion.
Peckover clasped his head and staggered forward. "You're a dead man,"
he exclaimed hoarsely.
"Scott! What do you mean?" cried Quorn, going pale.
"It was--doctored," stammered the other, hardly knowing what he said.
"Poison?" demanded Quorn in a horrified tone, clutching fiercely at
Peckover who dodged, as frightened as he.
Then he gave a laugh of desperation. "Well, yes, if you like to call
it so. It's as good as murder," he assured himself in a woeful
whisper. "What am I to do?" He ran to the window, but was arrested by
a cry from his companion, and turned to see him collapse in a chair.
"Here, wake up! Stand up! You'll be all right," he cried, desperately
shaking him.
"Oh, I do feel queer," muttered Quorn. The irises of his eyes seemed
to turn up into his head, and he fell forward on the table insensible,
with his too liberal entertainer standing over him aghast.
What was he to do? If he called for help, everything would come out,
and he would be taken red-handed.
"He's done for, poor fellow," he told himself in a terrified whisper,
trembling in every joint. "He's a dead man. I'd better follow him."
He caught up the fatal glass, but it was empty. "Not a drop left. Ah,
there will be another sort of drop for me," he whispered through his
chattering teeth. "What shall I do?" Then his face sensibly
brightened as the idea of his desperate expedient, which had been
frightened away, came back to him. "Ah, that's it!" he muttered.
"That's my only chance. They think I'm Lord Quorn. Now is my real tip
to be Lord Quorn. No one here knows him, and he's not so very unlike
Percy Peckover. Quick!" He ran to the window and pulled the curtains
across; then hurried back and began feverishly searching the lifeless
man's pockets.
"Any papers to identify him? Ah!" He pulled out a packet of letters,
and transferred them to his own pocket, replacing them by some bills
and a writ.
[Illustration: "He pulled out a packet of letters, and transferred them
to his own pocket."]
"That's it," he muttered. "They're of no use to him now, and may save
an innocent man from the gallows." He set the empty phial into Quorn's
limp hand. "There!" he exclaimed, as with a long drawn sigh of
desperate relief he surveyed the position. "Percy Peckover is dead.
Long live Lord Quorn! It's a fair desperate shift; but I can't be
worse off than I was, and I may be better."