“You have the proofs?”

“They will be at your service, my choleric friend,” replied the other suavely, “in exchange for your silence.”

Adam Lambert drew a chair close to his whilom enemy, sat down opposite to him, with elbows resting on his knee, his clenched fists supporting his chin, and his eyes—­anxious, eager, glowing, fixed resolutely on de Chavasse.

“I’ll hold my tongue, never fear,” he said curtly.  “Show me the proofs.”

Sir Marmaduke gave a pleasant little laugh.

“Not so fast, my friend,” he said, “I do not carry such important papers about in my breeches’ pocket.”

And he rose from his chair, picked up the perruque and false mustache which the other man had dropped upon the floor, and adjusting these on his head and face he once more presented the appearance of the exiled Orleans prince.

“But thou’lt show them to me to-night,” insisted the smith roughly.

“How can I, mine impatient friend?” quoth de Chavasse lightly, “the hour is late already.”

“Nay! what matter the lateness of the hour?  I am oft abroad at night, early and late, and thou, methinks, hast oft had the midnight hour for company.  When and where wilt meet me?” added Lambert peremptorily, “I must see those proofs to-night, before many hours are over, lest the blood in my veins burn my body to ashes with impatience.  When wilt meet me?  Eleven? ...  Midnight? ... or the small hours of the morn?”

He spoke quickly, jerking out his words through closed teeth, his eyes burning with inward fever, his fists closing and unclosing with rapid febrile movements of the fingers.

The pent-up disappointment and rebellion of a whole lifetime against Fate, was expressed in the man’s attitude, the agonizing eagerness which indeed seemed to be consuming him.

De Chavasse, on the other hand, had become singularly calm.  The black shade as usual hid one of his eyes, masking and distorting the expression of his face; the false mustache, too, concealed the movements of his lips, and the more his opponent’s eyes tried to search the schemer’s face, the more inscrutable and bland did the latter become.

“Nay, my friend,” he said at last, “I do not know that the thought of a midnight excursion with you appeals to my sense of personal security.  I ...”

But with a violent oath, Adam had jumped to his feet, and kicked the chair away from under him so that it fell backwards with a loud clatter.

“Thou’lt meet me to-night,” he said loudly and threateningly now, “thou’lt meet me on the path near the cliffs of Epple Bay half an hour before midnight, and if thou hast lied to me, I’ll throw thee over and Thanet then will be rid of thee ... but if thou dost not come, I’ll to my brother Richard even before the church clock of Acol hath sounded the hour of midnight.”

De Chavasse watched him silently for the space of three seconds, realizing, of course, that he was completely in that man’s power, and also that the smith meant every word that he said.  The discovery of the monstrous fraud by Richard Lambert within the next few hours was a contingency which he could not even contemplate without shuddering.  He certainly would much prefer to give up to this uncouth laborer the proofs of his parentage which eventually might mean an earldom and a fortune to a village blacksmith.