“But is he dead?” pursued their guest.

“Beauty?  Yes; smashed in that express, you know.”

“But there was no evidence?”

“I don’t know what you call evidence,” murmured “the Dauphin.”  “Horses are sent to England from Paris; clearly shows he went to Paris.  Marseilles train smashes; twenty people ground into indistinguishable amalgamation; two of the amalgamated jammed head foremost in a carriage alone; only traps in carriage with them, Beauty’s traps, with name clear on the brass outside, and crest clear on silver things inside; two men ground to atoms, but traps safe; two men, of course Beauty and servant; man was a plucky fellow, sure, to stay with him.”

And having given the desired evidence in lazy little intervals of speech, he took some Rhenish.

“Well—­yes; nothing could be more conclusive, certainly,” assented the Baronet, resignedly convinced.  “It was the best thing that could happen under the unfortunate circumstances; so Lord Royallieu thinks, I suppose.  He allowed no one to wear mourning, and had his unhappy son’s portrait taken down and burned.”

“How melodramatic!” reflected Leo Charteris.  “Now what the deuce can it hurt a dead man to have his portrait made into a bonfire?  Old lord always did hate Beauty, though.  Rock does all the mourning; he’s cut up no end; never saw a fellow so knocked out of time.  Vowed at first he’d sell out, and go into the Austrian service; swore he couldn’t stay in the Household, but would get a command of some Heavies, and be changed to India.”

“Duke didn’t like that—­didn’t want him shot; nobody else, you see, for the title.  By George!  I wish you’d seen Rock the other day on the Heath; little Pulteney came up to him.”

“What Pulteney?—­Jimmy, or the Earl?”

“Oh, the Earl!  Jimmy would have known better.  These new men never know anything.  ’You purchased that famous steeple-chaser of his from Mr. Cecil’s creditors, didn’t you!’ asks Pulteney.  Rock just looks him over.  Such a look, by George!  ’I received Forest King as my dead friend’s last gift.’  Pulteney never takes the hint—­not he.  On he blunders:  ’Because, if you were inclined to part with him, I want a good new hunting strain, with plenty of fencing power, and I’d take him for the stud at any figure you liked.’  I thought the Seraph would have knocked him down—­I did, upon my honor!  He was red as this wine in a second with rage, and then as white as a woman.  ‘You are quite right,’ he says quietly, and I swear each word cut like a bullet, ’you do want a new strain with something like breeding in it, but—­I hardly think you’ll get it for the three next generations.  You must learn to know what it means first.’  Then away he lounges.  By Jove!  I don’t think the Cotton-Earl will forget this Cambridgeshire in a hurry, or try horse-dealing on the Seraph again.”

Laughter loud and long greeted the story.