Part 13 (1/2)

The Duke's advice remained unuttered. Just at that moment the door was opened. A servant ushered in a new-comer.

”Sir Tristram Triggs.”

The Duke, striding forward, held out both his hands. ”Sir Tristram!

And how long is it to be Sir Tristram?”

The other shrugged his shoulders.

”For a few hours, more or less, I suppose. I don't know much about this kind of thing. I daresay I shall know more about it when I've done.”

”When you've done? May that not be for many and many a year! Allow me to introduce to you a friend of mine--Mr. Thomas Stanham.”

Sir Tristram turned. For the first time he appeared to notice Mr.

Stanham.

Physically the new great man was short, and inclined to ponderosity.

The entire absence of hair upon his face served to accentuate its peculiar characteristics. It was a square face--and, in particular, the jaw was square. His big eyes looked from under a penthouse formed by his overhanging brows. As one looked at him one instinctively felt that this was a man whom it would be safer to have as a friend than an enemy. As he turned a faint smile seemed to be struggling into existence about the corners of his great mouth. But directly his glance alighted upon Mr. Stanham that smile vanished into the _ewigkeit_. He looked at him very much as a bull-terrier might look at a rat. And he said, in a tone of voice which seemed fraught with curious significance--

”I have had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman before.”

On his part Mr. Stanham regarded Sir Tristram with a supercilious air which, perhaps unconsciously to himself, was only too frequently seen upon his face--as if Sir Tristram were an inferior thing.

”I'd no idea that your name was Triggs.”

The Duke, standing behind Sir Tristram, clenched his fists, and glared at Mr. Stanham as if he would like to have knocked him down.

It happened, shortly afterwards, that Miss Cullen left her bedroom to come downstairs. As she went along the corridor she met a gentleman who was being conducted by a servant, probably to his own apartment.

The gentleman was Sir Tristram Triggs. When Sir Tristram saw Miss Cullen, and Miss Cullen saw Sir Tristram, they both of them stopped short. The great man's complexion was, normally, of a ruddy hue. At sight of the lady he turned the colour of a beetroot, boiled. She drew herself up to the full capacity of her inches. And she uttered a single monosyllable.

”You!”

That was all she said--then went sweeping on.

”That horrid man!--He here!--To think of it!--If I'd only known that he was coming I do believe, in spite of Tommy, that I'd have stayed away.”

At the foot of the stairs Miss Cullen encountered Mr. Stanham. That gentleman had, as he was wont to have, his hands in his pockets. Also, as he was not wont to have, he had a face as long as his arm.

”I say, Frank, old man, isn't there somewhere where I can have a word or two with you on the strict Q.T.?”

”Certainly--the library. There's never a soul in there.”

One would not like to libel Tuttenham so far as to say, with Miss Cullen, that the only tenants the library ever had were the books.

But, on that occasion, it did chance that the pair had the whole place to themselves. Mr. Stanham perched himself on a corner of the table, still with his hands in his pockets.

”There's going to be a pretty kettle of fish, dear boy.”

That was what the gentleman observed.