was finished by the Marquis of Queensberry passing his arm through Brummell’s and leading him off, while my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front and shot his ruffles as if he were well satisfied with his share in the encounter.  It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots, in which one could arrange one’s cravat?  They lived strange lives, these men, and they died strange deaths—­some by their own hands, some as beggars, some in a debtor’s gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in a foreign land.

“There is the card-room, Rodney,” said my uncle, as we passed an open door on our way out.  Glancing in, I saw a line of little green baize tables with small groups of men sitting round, while at one side was a longer one, from which there came a continuous murmur of voices.  “You may lose what you like in there, save only your nerve or your temper,” my uncle continued.  “Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that the luck was with you?”

A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face, had stepped out of the open doorway.  His heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed at the cheek and temple like water-grooved flint.  He was dressed entirely in black, and I noticed that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had been drinking.

“Lost like the deuce,” he snapped.

“Dice?”

“No, whist.”

“You couldn’t get very hard hit over that.”

“Couldn’t you?” he snarled.  “Play a hundred a trick and a thousand on the rub, losing steadily for five hours, and see what you think of it.”

My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard look upon the other’s face.

“I hope it’s not very bad,” he said.

“Bad enough.  It won’t bear talking about.  By the way, Tregellis, have you got your man for this fight yet?”

“No.”

“You seem to be hanging in the wind a long time.  It’s play or pay, you know.  I shall claim forfeit if you don’t come to scratch.”

“If you will name your day I shall produce my man, Sir Lothian,” said my uncle, coldly.

“This day four weeks, if you like.”

“Very good.  The 18th of May.”

“I hope to have changed my name by then!”

“How is that?” asked my uncle, in surprise.

“It is just possible that I may be Lord Avon.”

“What, you have had some news?” cried my uncle, and I noticed a tremor in his voice.

“I’ve had my agent over at Monte Video, and he believes he has proof that Avon died there.  Anyhow, it is absurd to suppose that because a murderer chooses to fly from justice—­”

“I won’t have you use that word, Sir Lothian,” cried my uncle, sharply.

“You were there as I was.  You know that he was a murderer.”