“Chartersea is here to-night,” said he.

I started.  “How do you know?”

“Tyers told me he turned up half an hour since.  Tom asked his Grace to join our party,” his Lordship laughed.  “Duke said no—­he was to be here only half an hour, and Tom did not push him.  He told me as a joke, and thinks Chartersea came to meet some petite.”

“Any one with him?” I asked.

“Yes.  Tall, dark man, one eye cast,—­that’s Lewis.  They have come on some dirty work, Richard.  Watch little Marmaduke.  He has been fidgety as a cat all night.”

“That’s true,” said I. Looking up, I caught Dorothy’s eyes upon us, her lips parted, uneasiness and apprehension plain upon her face.  Comyn dropped his voice still lower.

“I believe she suspects something,” he said, rising.  “Chartersea is gone off toward the Wilderness, so Tom says.  You must not let little Marmaduke see him.  If Manners gets up to go, I will tune up Black-eked Susan, and do you follow on some pretext.  If you are not back in a reasonable time, I’ll after you.”

He had been gone scant three minutes before I heard his clear voice singing, “in the Downs”, and up I got, with a precipitation far from politic, and stepped out of the box.  Our company stared in surprise.  But Dorothy rose clear from her chair.  The terror I saw stamped upon her face haunts me yet, and I heard her call my name.

I waited for nothing.  Gaining the Grand Walk, I saw Mr. Marmaduke’s insignificant figure dodging fearfully among the roughs, whose hour it was.  He traversed the Cross Walk, and twenty yards farther on dived into an opening in the high hedge bounding the Wilderness.  Before he had made six paces I had him by the shoulder, and he let out a shriek of fright like a woman’s.

“It is I, Richard Carvel, Mr. Manners,” I said shortly.  I could not keep out the contempt from my tone.  “I beg a word with you.”

In his condition then words were impossible.  His teeth rattled again, and he trembled like a hare caught alive.  I kept my hold of him, and employed the time until he should be more composed peering into the darkness.  For all I knew Chartersea might be within ear-shot.  But I could see nothing but black trunks of trees.

“What is it, Richard?”

“You are going to meet Chartersea,” I said.

He must have seen the futility of a lie, or else was scared out of all contrivance.  “Yes,” he said weakly.

“You have allowed it to become the talk of London that this filthy nobleman is blackmailing you for your daughter,” I went on, without wasting words.  “Tell me, is it, or is it not, true?”

As he did not answer, I retained a handful of the grained silk on his shoulder as a measure of precaution.

“Is this so?” I repeated.

“You must know, I suppose,” he said, under his breath, and with a note of sullenness.

“I must,” I said firmly.  “The knowledge is the weapon need, for I, too, am going to meet Chartersea.”