For several seconds neither man spoke; Peckover, sprawling limply as he
fell, staring with distended, apprehensive eyes at Quorn who, master of
the strange situation, regarded him with a certain grim amusement.
"Hope you are having a good time, Mr.--Gage, is it?--or something else,
which for the moment has slipped my memory?"
Peckover's wits were rapidly recovering from the shock of dispersal
caused by the unexpected bomb which had fallen on them. "Curious we
should meet again like this," he said with a sickly smile.
"Very," was the pointed response. "And a trifle awkward, I should
fancy, for you."
"Oh, no," Peckover protested, pulling himself together and assuming the
boldest face he could summon up. "It wasn't my fault you drank that
doctored wine, which I intended for my own consumption."
"Dare say not," Quorn returned uncompromisingly. "Admitting for the
sake of argument that was an unfortunate mistake, how about you and
your friend annexing my place and title?"
Peckover's face showed bland surprise. "Me and my friend taking your
place and title? What do you mean?"
"Oh," replied Quorn with impatient sarcasm, "we are dense this evening.
It may astonish you, Mr. Alias Gage, but I rather fancy Staplewick Park
and Towers belong to Lord Quorn."
"Who suggested they didn't?" asked Peckover wonderingly.
"I'd like to see the man, that's all," retorted Quorn. "And," he
resumed, "I'm rather under the impression that I'm Lord Quorn."
"I dare say," was the prompt rejoinder. "But it doesn't follow you are
that nobleman."
"What?" he roared.
"Don't make a noise," said Peckover, with a touch of dignity; "the
servants aren't used to it."
"I say I am Lord Quorn," the other repeated with less volume but more
intensity. "And you know it."
"But Lord Quorn says he's Lord Quorn," argued the wily Peckover with
maddening plausibility. "That's all I know. I'm not the Heralds'
College."
"You're a pair of frauds," cried Quorn.
"Naturally, if you're the rightful peer," was the bland reply. "But we
don't know it, nor anybody else."
"Don't they?"
"Except yourself, I was going to say, and a lady and gentleman who have
come all the way from Australia to stick to it--and you."
The hit told. Quorn's manner visibly weakened.
"What--you've had the nuisances up here--what is their infernal game?"
he asked, darkly apprehensive.
"Simple enough," replied Peckover, beginning to feel the courage he had
hitherto simulated. "The fair Lalage's game is to be Lady Quorn, or to
know the reason why. And she has brought over dear old Carnaby as an
extra note of interrogation."
"Oh! What persevering devils they are," Quorn observed uneasily. "And
what do they say to your friend who calls himself Lord Quorn?"
"Say?" Peckover's native smartness was quick to turn the situation to
advantage. "Why, their idea is that one Lord Quorn's as good as
another and failing one the other will do nicely."
Quorn gave a long whistle. "Why, you don't mean to say that Lal Leo is
going for your friend?"
"She is, though, by George," was the blunt answer. "Only, of course,
she hasn't got the hold on him she would have on you. And that's where
Carnaby comes in."
Quorn looked at him searchingly, but was fain to accept the statement.
Besides which, it tallied with his idea of the Leonine methods. "Well,
that's a queer go," he said, and then fell into a puzzled silence.
Presently he burst out with a question, not unnatural under the
circumstances. "Who the devil is the thief who has the cheek to call
himself Lord Quorn?"
Peckover shrugged. "For aught I know to the contrary he is Lord
Quorn," he replied blandly.
"Rats!" cried the dispossessed one wrathfully. "It's a put-up job
between you and him."
"My good sir----"
"You know he's not Lord Quorn, and you know I am."
"I've told you already, not being in the know of the Heralds' College,
I'm not in a position to say anything about it."
"Aren't you?" sneered Quorn. "I know all about it, though. When I
drank that loaded stuff that sent me to sleep that was your chance, and
you took it."
"Did I?"
"You did. And I don't blame you. But I've woke up now."
"Then," rejoined Peckover sarcastically, "since you are so wide-awake,
perhaps you can explain why I didn't take the title myself?"
"I suppose," Quorn replied nastily, "you didn't feel you could fill the
part."
"Of a British nobleman?" Peckover laughed scornfully. "Too steady and
respectable, eh? My highly creditable record wouldn't have stood in my
way if I'd had a chance of nobbling the coronet."
Quorn brought his fist down with a bang on the table. "D--n it, man,
who is this fellow?"
"Lord Quorn," Peckover maintained.
"Lord Quorn!" The real man could not find words to express his
disgust. "How did you pick him up?" he demanded, seeing the
uselessness of arguing the question of identity.
"He picked me up," Peckover replied coolly.
"How? When? Where?"
"I'll tell you all about it, if you won't make such a noise," Peckover
said suavely. "He came to the _Quorn Arms_ just after you had made
that little mistake in the refreshment, and announced himself as Lord
Quorn; and who was I to say he was not Lord Quorn?"
"Funny," remarked Quorn, "that he should have brought you along here."
"Fact is," was the ready explanation, "he was afraid of being caught by
those Hemyock terrors who straightaway began tumbling over one another
to get him. Brought me along here as a chaperon, or an umbrella, if
you like, and I've made myself useful."
"I see," said Quorn suspiciously. "And how about being a millionaire?"
"That," replied Peckover, "is how we worked the trick. Lady Agatha is
a nailer. She wouldn't have wasted board and lodging on a poor man.
And as a rich chap I can whistle the dear girls off when they get
closer to Quorn than he cares about."
The assumption of the title irritated its real holder. "Quorn?" he
repeated resentfully. "I like that. There's only one Quorn, and I'm
going to show everybody where he is."
"Lalage and all?" was the pertinent objection.
"Oh, confound Lalage!"
"Just so--confound Lalage," was the hearty response, "Only take care
Lalage does not confound you."
For a few moments Quorn preserved an aggrieved and discomfited silence.
"You don't suppose," he said at length, "I am going to stand being
humbugged like this."
"I don't reckon anything about it," replied Peckover with wise
mendacity. "You two Quorns had better fight it out between yourselves.
Only----"
"Only what?" the other snapped.
"If I were you I should wait until the ring's clear before I put up my
hands."
Quorn stared in front of him in gloomy silence. "Pretty darned mess it
is," he remarked presently.
"It is. But it will clear up," said Peckover cheerfully. "That is if
you give it time."
Quorn made a sour face. "Nice position for me----"
"If you will go engaging the affections of ladies from the Bush with
short hair and muscular brothers," put in Peckover. "It's a mercy as
it is that this other claimant cropped up. He has saved you a lot of
worry."
"So they're after him?" asked Quorn with grim amusement.
"You bet. He had to stay in bed for a week to keep out of their way.
Lalage has crossed over to be Lady Quorn, and she means business."
"The devil she does!" exclaimed Quorn uneasily.
"Just think," urged Peckover with telling plausibility, "what this
other Quorn has saved you from. Dear old Carnaby has a rare hankering
after experiments on people's physiognomies; trying how a man looks
with his nose bent, his eye closed, and a tooth or two smudged out. He
fitted his dooks once round my throat, and I can feel 'em there now."
"What was that for?"
"Just to keep his hand in. He is uncommonly keen on meeting you, and
he has got a bagful of funniments ready for the occasion."
"Pleasant fellow," ejaculated Quorn ruefully.
"Yes," pursued Peckover, "it's providential this chap, t'other Quorn,
turned up. And if you take my advice you'll let him sit where he is
till the Leos have eaten their heads off at _The Pigeons_ and turned
the game up."
"Looks as though I'd better," Quorn agreed reluctantly.
"It will be bad enough if Carnaby catches you about as it is,"
continued Peckover, encouraged by the success of his argument. "He may
do something distinctly unpleasant, but, not being for the moment Lord
Quorn, you won't have to marry old Lalage into the bargain."
"That's something," murmured Quorn.
"Everything, almost," said Peckover cheerfully. "If you wriggle out of
that matrimonial spring-trap, you won't mind leaving half of your tail
behind. You may lose a feature or two, but you'll be saved a life-time
of bother."
"To get quit of Lalage would be gratifying," Quorn admitted gloomily.
"But with my nose sliced off----"
"If," urged Peckover encouragingly, "you keep away from the
looking-glass you'll never miss it."
"But other people will," Quorn objected, clearly discomposed by the
idea.
"Well, then," Peckover summed up, "if you don't feel equal to tackling
the gentle Carnaby either as Quorn or Jenkins, you had best lie low
till they cart themselves away. The other Quorn won't be particular,
since you saved his life, and Treacher doesn't go for a month. We'll
fix you up a room in one of the lodges, and you can spend your time in
keeping out of Lalage's way. Give out you are surveying the estate,
which, if it should turn out to be yours, won't be trouble thrown away.
I'll look after you, and back you up. You can trust me."
"I don't know that I can," was the not unnatural objection.
"Of course you can," Peckover assured him sympathetically. "Anyhow,
you've got to, unless you want Carnaby to wring you out and swab the
stable yard with you."
"A nice thing," Quorn protested distastefully, "for me to be skulking
about, and playing the understrapper on my own estate."
"Ah, yes," said Peckover sententiously. "We often have to pay for our
fun when we least expect to."
Thus it came to pass that matters shaped themselves to the wily
Peckover's handling, and he was able with native shrewdness to snatch a
fresh reprieve from the threatening exposure. And it was of manifest
importance for him to do so, since every day's income made an
appreciable addition to the little capital he was amassing. If only he
could keep the game up for a few months it would be for him, an
independence. That former income of his, thirty-five shillings a week,
would be his for life, and without working. No wonder he sharpened his
wits to keep his oddly diversified puppets dallying.
So the unsuspecting Lord Quorn by purchase continued to enjoy his
title, little dreaming of the Jenkinsian volcano at his very door. So
likewise the chafing and mystified Quorn was assiduously taken in hand
by Peckover and his fears kept up to high-water mark.