"Having now," resumed the duke, when the two men had, with a fine
affectation of nonchalance, but with somewhat unsteady hands, lighted
up again, "taken you through as much of the history of my family as to
persons of your acuteness of perception is necessary, I have the honour
to invite your attention to the moral of my house's story."
His listeners, by this time mentally detached from each other, and held
pitilessly and without respite by those auger-like eyes, puffed
nervously at their now tasteless cigars, and by their apprehensive
silence bade him proceed.
"The present unworthy holder of the dukedom of Salolja," that person
continued, with a deprecatory gesture, "--to leave ancient history
behind us--is for the moment in one of those inexpedient positions to
which his ancestors were occasionally liable, and from which they
invariably took prompt measures to extricate themselves. In the
province where we hold sway there is a proverb, 'A Sololja's rival
should make his will.' When one wishes to describe a useless action,
'It is like granting a lease to the rival of a Salolja.' Meaning that
he does not live to enjoy it. The phrase is expressive."
"Rather neat," commented Peckover, with an effort.
"Now to come to the point," pursued their tormentor, his fierce eyes in
singular contrast to his bald head and deliberate speech, "the present
Duke of Salolja--to keep the discussion conveniently impersonal--has
made up his mind to contract an alliance with a certain English lady; a
commoner, it is true, but one whose beauty and wealth may claim to make
up, in a measure, for genealogical deficiencies. The lady's name is
Miss Ulrica Buffkin."
Both hearers nodded an acquaintance with it.
"It has come to the duke's knowledge," continued that same nobleman,
raising his tone to a slightly minatory pitch. "That another person,
an Englishman, I should say an English nobleman, has, unwittingly I am
ready to allow, been led into paying certain attentions to the lady in
question. I am sure that to capable and clever men like yourselves it
is not necessary for me to set myself the disagreeable task of pointing
out the inevitable result of such an unwarranted and deplorable
interference should it be persevered in."
He paused, took out a silk pocket-handkerchief embroidered with a
flamboyant coronet and cypher, and passed it lightly across his lips,
never taking his vicious eyes off the two men who had by this, under
the paralysing gaze, assumed the appearance and almost the condition of
a pair of waxworks.
As the lengthening pause seemed to demand a response, Gage with a great
effort roused himself from the Tussaudy rigidity, and, with a desperate
attempt at boldness, replied--
"You might let us know, while we are on the subject."
"No harm in mentioning it," Peckover chipped in with a somewhat ghastly
pretence of a smile.
The little duke thrust back the handkerchief into his breast pocket,
and then threw out his hands expressively. "I should have imagined,"
he replied, with a transcendentally threatening eye, "that men of the
sagacity and penetration of your graces would have found no difficulty
in deducing from the instances you have just heard with such admirable
patience, the fate in store for any one who is rash enough to enter the
lists with a Duke of Salolja."
His voice, rising with abrupt suddenness, thundered out the last words
with a volume and intensity which made his rivals fairly jump in their
uneasy seats. Anyhow, the wordy Grandee had come to the point, and the
point had to be faced or run from.
Gage, whose mode of life had kept his nervous system in better order
than his companion's, was the first to reply.
"That's all very well," he said, bracing himself to join issue with the
fiery little Castilian, and assuming a courage he did not feel. "But
this is a free country; and in these enlightened days you can't run a
man through the body before lunch because your best girl has the good
or bad taste to prefer him."
Fury leapt like a flame in the duke's eyes, but he replied calmly, even
suavely, "Your excellency is wrong. What is to prevent me?"
"The police," Peckover suggested promptly, trying to catch boldness
from Gage's attitude.
The duke burst into a loud and particularly unpleasant laugh. "The
police? Really, your graces compel my amusement. May I ask you three
questions?"
"Three dozen, if you like," answered Gage unsteadily.
The duke accepted the bounty with a bow. "Three will suffice."
Whereupon very loudly, "One." Then in a normal tone, "How many police
have you within a radius of, say, three miles from Staplewick Towers?"
"One or two," Gage was forced to answer rather sheepishly.
The duke bowed, this time with a sarcastic smile.
"Two." Again the disturbing, superfluous shout. "How long would it
take you to send for the nearest, supposing you found him at home?"
"Oh, about twenty minutes," Gage tried to reply casually.
Once more the absurdly loud enumeration. "Three. And how long do you
consider it would take me to put a bullet through your body?"
Simultaneously with the question a glittering object shone in his hand.
It was the highly polished barrel of a revolver which he had whipped
out casually with a deftness which seemed born of practice, and with
which he now covered his rival.
Both men started to their feet with blanched faces.
"Here, I say!" Peckover remonstrated in ill-concealed terror.
"How long?" sang out the little demon of a duke in his commanding
voice. "Oblige me by answering the question."
"A second, I suppose," gasped Gage. "Now please turn that revolver
away."
"That is," proceeded the duke in a tone of satisfaction, "nineteen
minutes and fifty-nine seconds before the policeman arrives." Still
holding the weapon in his hand, but now pointing to the floor, he rose,
brought his heels together and bowed. "I trust, milord Quorn and Mr.
Gage, my most honourable friends, that at length we understand one
another." Then he sat down again, his aggressive eyes moving with
mechanical regularity from one man to the other, since the exigencies
of the moment had sent the friends apart.
But now, throughly roused by the critical situation, Peckover spoke.
"I don't know, my lord dook, whether you are aware that we have strict
laws in this country against murder."
"And," put in Gage, "against carrying firearms without a licence."
The duke laughed scornfully and with superfluous volume. "Do your
Excellencies think we have no such laws in Spain? And do your graces
suppose that if the Dukes of Salolja had cared a fig for them the
occurrences which I have narrated to you would have happened? You hang
a man for what you call murder here. But have you ever heard of your
English law hanging a Grandee of Spain? And do you think you would be
allowed to do so? Pah!" He snapped his fingers with a noise like the
crack of a whip. "What is your English law compared with the
immemorial traditions of the Saloljas? NOTHING! Shall it stand
between a Salolja and his vengeance, his desire? NEVER!"
He shouted the answers to the last two of his many questions with
scornful vehemence. His manner was, no doubt, irritating, and that,
perhaps, accounted for Peckover's boldness.
"You don't bluff us you are above the law," he said, trembling at his
own temerity. "If we haven't hung a Spanish Grandee as yet, it's
because none of you have killed anybody over here that I remember."
The demon duke grinned and spread out his hands before him, as though
sweeping away a feeble protest.
"My gracious friend, you jump at hasty conclusions. Who talks of
killing, of murder. Faugh! It is a vulgar word. Accidents happen,
here as in Spain; deplorable, fatal accidents. Firearms go off, almost
of themselves; it is sad to think how easily they go off. I could tell
you stories of such miserable fatalities in my own family, but you have
probably heard enough of the ways of the Saloljas for one evening.
Death is very near us always," he continued sententiously. "So near
that the healthiest of us is only just alive. Which of us bears a life
worth an hour's purchase? NONE! And the man who trifles with a
Salolja cannot call the next moment his own. There it is. Accept it
or not, it is the truth, the eternal, bitter, naked truth."
His voice was like a Nasmyth hammer, now pounding, roaring, seeming to
shake the room, now gentle and soft as a shy schoolgirl's. As he
concluded his speech his tone sank into a solemn hush, indicative of
the awesome inevitable. For some moments there was silence in the
room, save for the ticking clock. Then, when the tension had lasted as
long as was desirable, the duke rose, and advancing to the table took
the finest peach in the dish. The flashing had now faded from his
eyes, and the expression on his face was truculently amiable.
"I sincerely hope I have not wearied your excellencies," he observed.
"It has been most condescending and gracious of you to let me explain
myself at such length. A veritable poem of a peach; I have not met its
fellow in England. May I now, since our slight misunderstanding is at
an end, do myself the honour of drinking a glass of wine with your
graces?"
Rousing themselves from the gloomy preoccupation of their discomfiture,
their graces, with a quite futile pretence of ease, hastened to
minister to their undesirable visitor's request. That worthy proceeded
to toss off a couple of bumpers with a relish commensurate with his
long and thirst-giving harangue. "If I ask further for one of your
graces' excellent cigars," he suggested with a pleasantness which could
not seem other than grim, "it is as another proof of how unwilling I am
to bear malice. Ah!" He lighted the cigar and blew out a long cloud
with evident enjoyment.
"Unlike my ancestors I make allowances," he declared significantly.
"Unlike them again, I never strike without warning. Yes," he added,
dropping his voice into a genial tone; "it is perhaps well for us that
we did not live, and in the same relations one to another, a hundred,
two hundred years ago. At least we should not all three be enjoying
these superb cigars."
It was a difficult sentiment for the smarting pair to respond to.
"Just so," was all Peckover, with an awkward laugh, could think of.
"I am ashamed to have stayed so long," said their guest, with an
expressive glance at the clock. "But it is better to risk missing the
strict punctilio than to have to intrude again. Your excellency's
house and park are delightful. I felicitate myself on my visit. Your
cigars are exquisite. I take another, in token of our better
understanding, to enjoy on my way to your somewhat depressing Great
Bunbury. Good-night, milord Quorn. Good-night, Mr. Gage. A thousand
compliments and adieux to you both. May it never be necessary for us
to meet on less amicable terms than those which prevail between us at
present. Once again my most distinguished homage. Adieu."
With his heels together he made to each man a most profound bow; then
turned to the window, opened it with a sure touch upon the latch,
turned again, bowed, and disappeared into the night.
For some moments the two men stood staring speechless into the
darkness. Then their eyes met.
"This is a glorious title," said Gage, clipping out the words with
bitter intensity. "I am having a ripping time with it. It's a fine
thing to be alive just now."
"All things considered, it's lucky we are alive," was Peckover's dry
but feeling response.