He spoke with comically twisted eyebrows and a smile half-kindly and half-quizzical.  And the forlorn little creature in his arms turned with a swooping, passionate movement, caught one of his hands and pressed it to quivering lips.

“I’ll live—­or die—­for your sake!” the trembling voice told him.  “I’m just—­yours.”

Saltash stopped abruptly and laid his face for a moment against the shorn, golden head.  Just for that moment a hint of emotion showed in his strange eyes, but it was gone instantly.

He raised himself again with a grimace of self-ridicule.  “Well, look here!  Don’t forget to play the game!  Larpent—­your daddy—­is knocked out, remember.  He is unconscious for the present, but the doctor chap seems to think he’ll be all right.  A nasty suspicious person that doctor, so watch out!  And let me see!  What is Toby short for?  I’d better know.”

“Antoinette,” whispered the lips that still caressed his hand.

“Antoinette!” Saltash’s hand closed softly upon the pointed chin, softly lifted it.  “I think Mignonette would suit you better,” he said, in his quick, caressing way.  “It’s time I chose a name for you, ma chere.  I shall call you that.”

“Or just Nonette of Nowhere,” breathed the red lips, piteously smiling.  “That would suit me—­best of all.”

“No—­no!” said Saltash, and gently relinquished his hold.  “Don’t forget that you are a favourite of the gods!  That counts for something, my Toby.  They don’t take up with everybody.”

“They haven’t done much for me so far,” said Toby, suddenly rebellious.

“Hush!” said Saltash, with semi-comic warning.  “You are too young to say that.”

“I am—­older than you think, sir,” said Toby, colouring painfully and turning from his look.

“No, you’re not!” Swiftly, with a certain arrogance, Saltash made answer.  “I know—­how old you are, child.  It is written in your eyes.  They have always told me—­all I need to know.”  Then, very tenderly, as Toby’s hands covered them from his look:  “Mais, Mignonette, they have never told me anything that you could wish me not to know.”

He slipped his arm again about the slender shoulders and pressed them closely for a moment.  Then he stood up and turned to go.

He was smiling as he passed out—­the smile of the gambler who knows that he holds a winning card.

PART II

CHAPTER I

JAKE BOLTON

It was a week after the sinking of The Night Moth that Saltash, very immaculately dressed, with field-glasses slung over his shoulder, made his first appearance since the disaster at a meeting on the Graydown Race-course, a few miles from his ancient castle of Burchester.  He was looking very well pleased with himself and certainly none the worse for the adventure as he sauntered among his friends, of whom a good many were present.  His ugly face and wiry figure were well-known at Graydown, and he seemed sure of his welcome wherever he went.