Richard folded up the letter silently.

“Jump into the cab,” he said to Ripton.

“Anything the matter, Richard?”

“No.”

The driver received directions.  Richard sat without speaking.  His friend knew that face.  He asked whether there was bad news in the letter.  For answer, he had the lie circumstancial.  He ventured to remark that they were going the wrong way.

“It’d the right way,” cried Richard, and his jaws were hard and square, and his eyes looked heavy and full.

Ripton said no more, but thought.

The cabman pulled up at a Club.  A gentleman, in whom Ripton recognized the Hon. Peter Brayder, was just then swinging a leg over his horse, with one foot in the stirrup.  Hearing his name called, the Hon. Peter turned about, and stretched an affable hand.

“Is Mountfalcon in town?” said Richard taking the horse’s reins instead of the gentlemanly hand.  His voice and aspect were quite friendly.

“Mount?” Brayder replied, curiously watching the action; “yes.  He’s off this evening.”

“He is in town?” Richard released his horse.  “I want to see him.  Where is he?”

The young man looked pleasant:  that which might have aroused Brayder’s suspicions was an old affair in parasitical register by this time.  “Want to see him?  What about?” he said carelessly, and gave the address.

“By the way,” he sang out, “we thought of putting your name down, Feverel.”  He indicated the lofty structure.  “What do you say?”

Richard nodded back at him, crying, “Hurry.”  Brayder returned the nod, and those who promenaded the district soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping of his well-earned horse.

“What do you want to see Lord Mountfalcon for, Richard?” said Ripton.

“I just want to see him,” Richard replied.

Ripton was left in the cab at the door of my lord’s residence.  He had to wait there a space of about ten minutes, when Richard returned with a clearer visage, though somewhat heated.  He stood outside the cab, and Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong grey eyes.  As clear as speech he understood them to say to him, “You won’t do,” but which of the many things on earth he would not do for he was at a loss to think.

“Go down to Raynham, Ripton.  Say I shall be there tonight certainly.  Don’t bother me with questions.  Drive off at once.  Or wait.  Get another cab.  I’ll take this.”

Ripton was ejected, and found himself standing alone in the street.  As he was on the point of rushing after the galloping cab-horse to get a word of elucidation, he heard some one speak behind him.

“You are Feverel’s friend?”

Ripton had an eye for lords.  An ambrosial footman, standing at the open door of Lord Mountfalcon’s house, and a gentleman standing on the doorstep, told him that he was addressed by that nobleman.  He was requested to step into the house.  When they were alone, Lord Mountfalcon, slightly ruffled, said:  “Feverel has insulted me grossly.  I must meet him, of course.  It’s a piece of infernal folly!—­I suppose he is not quite mad?”