At last, having turned up Waterloo Place, he saw a man standing in the door-way of one of these palaces, and he was aware at once that the man had seen him.  He was a man of such a nature that it would be impossible that he should have seen a worse.  He was a small, dry, good-looking little fellow, with a carefully preserved mustache, and a head from the top of which age was beginning to move the hair.  He lived by cards, and lived well.  He was called Captain Vignolles, but it was only known of him that he was a professional gambler.  He probably never cheated.  Men who play at the clubs scarcely ever cheat,—­there are so many with whom they play sharp enough to discover them; and with the discovered gambler all in this world is over.  Captain Vignolles never cheated; but he found that an obedience to those little rules which I have named above stood him well in lieu of cheating.  He was not known to have any particular income, but he was known to live on the best of everything as far as club life was concerned.

He immediately followed Mountjoy down into the street and greeted him.  “Captain Scarborough as I am a living man!”

“Well, Vignolles; how are you?”

“And so you have come back once more to the land of the living!  I was awfully sorry for you, and think that they treated you uncommon harshly.  As you’ve paid your money, of course they’ll let you in again.”  In answer to this, Mountjoy had very little to say:  but the interview ended by his accepting an invitation from Captain Vignolles to supper for the following evening.  If Captain Scarborough would come at eleven o’clock Captain Vignolles would ask a few fellows to meet him, and they would have—­just a little rubber of whist.  Mountjoy knew well the nature of the man who asked him, and understood perfectly what would be the result; but there thrilled through his bosom, as he accepted the invitation, a sense of joy which he could himself hardly understand.

On the following morning Mountjoy was up, for him, very early, and taking a return ticket went down to Buston.  He had written to Mr. Prosper, sending his compliments, and saying that he would do himself the honor of calling at a certain hour.

At the hour named he drew up at Buston Hall in a fly from Buntingford Station, and was told by Matthew, the old butler, that his master was at home.  If Captain Mountjoy would step into the drawing-room Mr. Prosper should be informed.  Mountjoy did as he was bidden, and after half an hour he was joined by Mr. Prosper.  “You have received a letter from my father,” he began by saying.

“A very long letter,” said the Squire of Buston.

“I dare say; I did not see it, and have in fact very little to say as to its contents.  I do not know, indeed, what they were.”

“The letter refers to my nephew, Mr. Henry Annesley.”

“I suppose so.  What I have to say refers to Mr. Henry Annesley also.”