around the personalities of Segrave and Richard Lambert. From the moment that he had — with studied callousness — turned his back on his erstwhile protégé he had held aloof from the crowd which had congregated around the two young men.
He saw before him the complete success of his nefarious plan, which had originated in the active brain of Editha, but had been perfected in his own — of heaping dire and lasting disgrace on the man who had become troublesome and interfering of late, who was a serious danger to his more important schemes.
After the fracas of this night Richard Lambert forsooth could never show his face within two hundred miles of London, the ugly story of his having cheated at cards and been publicly branded as a liar and a thief by a party of gentlemen would of a surety penetrate even within the fastnesses of Thanet.
So far everything was for the best, nay, it might be better still, for Segrave enraged and maddened at his losses, might succeed in getting Lambert imprisoned for stealing, and cheating, even at the cost of his own condemnation to a fine for gambling.
The Endicotts had done their part well. The man especially, with his wide cuffs and his quick movements. No one there present could have the slightest doubt but that Lambert was guilty. Satisfied, therefore, that all had gone according to his own wishes, Sir Marmaduke withdrew from further conflict or argument with the unfortunate young man, whom he had so deliberately and so hopelessly ruined.
And because he thus kept aloof, his ears were not so completely filled with the din, nor his mind so wholly engrossed by the hand-to-hand struggle between the two young men, that he did not perceive that other sound, which, in spite of barred windows and drawn curtains, came up from the street below.
At first he had only listened carelessly to the measured tramp. But the cry of "Halt!" issuing from immediately beneath the windows caused his cheeks to blanch and his muscles to stiffen with a sudden sense of fear.
He cast a rapid glance all around. Segrave and Lambert — both flushed and panting — were forcibly held apart. Sir Marmaduke noted with a grim smile that the latter was obviously the center of a hostile group, whilst Segrave was surrounded by a knot of sympathizers who were striving outwardly to pacify him, whilst in reality urging him on through their unbridled vituperations directed against the other man.
The noise of arguments, of shrill voices, of admonitions and violent abuse had in no sense abated.
Over the sea of excited faces Sir Marmaduke caught the wide-open, terrified eyes of Editha de Chavasse.
She too, had heard.
He beckoned to her across the room with a slight gesture of the hand, and she obeyed the silent call as quickly as she dared, working her way round to him, without arousing the attention of the crowd.
"Do not lose your head," he whispered as soon as she was near him and seeing the wild terror expressed in every line of her face. "Slip into the next room . . . and leave the door ajar. . . . Do this as quietly as may be . . . now . . . at once . . . then wait there until I come."
Again she obeyed him silently and swiftly, for she knew what that cry of "Halt!" meant, uttered at the door of her house. She had heard it, even as Sir Marmaduke had done, and after it the peremptory knocks, the loud call, the word of command, followed by the sound of an awed and supplicating voice, entering a feeble protest.
She knew what all that meant, and she was afraid.
As soon as Sir Marmaduke saw that she had done just as he had ordered, he deliberately joined the noisy groups which were congregated around Segrave and Lambert.
He pushed his way forward and anon stood face to face with the young man on whom he had just wreaked such an irreparable wrong. Not a thought of compunction or remorse rose in his mind as he looked down at the handsome flushed face — quite calm and set outwardly in spite of the terrible agony raging within heart and mind.
"Lambert!" he said gruffly, "listen to me. . . . Your conduct hath been most unseemly. . . . Mistress Endicott has for my sake, already shown you much kindness and forbearance . . . Had she acted as she had the right to do, she would have had you kicked out of the house by her servants. . . . In your own interests now I should advise you to follow me quietly out of the house. . . ."
But this suggestion raised a hot protest on the part of all the spectators.
"He shall not go!" declared Segrave violently.
"Not without leaving behind him what he has deliberately stolen," commented Endicott, raising his oily voice above the din.
Lambert had waited patiently, whilst his employer spoke. The last remnant of that original sense of deference and of gratitude caused him to hold himself in check lest he should strike that treacherous coward in the face. Sir Marmaduke's callousness in the face of his peril and unmerited disgrace, had struck Lambert with an overwhelming feeling of disappointment and loneliness. But his cruel insults now quashed despair and roused dormant indignation to fever pitch. One look at Sir Marmaduke's sneering face had told him not only that he could expect no help from the man who — by all the laws of honor — should have stood by him in his helplessness, but that he was the fount and source, the instigator of the terrible wrong and injustice which was about to land an innocent man in the veriest abyss of humiliation and irretrievable disgrace.
"And so this was your doing, Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse," he said, looking his triumphant enemy boldly in the face, even whilst compelling silent attention from those who were heaping opprobrious epithets upon him. "You enticed me here. . . . You persuaded me to play, . . . Then you tried to rob me of mine honor, of my good name, the only valuable assets which I possess. . . . Hell and all its devils alone know why you did this thing, but I swear before God that your hideous crime shall not remain unpunished. . . ."
"Silence!" commanded Sir Marmaduke, who was the first to perceive the strange, almost supernatural, effect produced on all those present, by the young man's earnestness, his impressive calm. Segrave himself stood silent and abashed, whilst everyone listened, unconsciously awed by that unmistakable note of righteousness which somehow rang through Lambert's voice.
"Nay! but I'll not be silent," quoth Richard unperturbed. "I have been condemned . . . and I have the right to speak. . . . You have disgraced me . . . and I have the right to defend mine honor . . . by protesting mine innocence. . . . And now I will leave this house," he added loudly and firmly, "for it is accursed and infamous . . . but God is my witness that I leave it without a stain upon my soul. . . ."
He pointed to the fateful table whereon a pile of gold lay scattered in an untidy heap, with the tiny leather wallet containing his five guineas conspicuously in its midst.
"There lies the money," he said, speaking directly to Segrave, "take it, sir, for I had never the intention to touch a penny of it. . . . This I swear by all that I hold most sacred. . . . Take it without fear or remorse — even though you thought such evil things of me . . . and let him who still thinks me a thief, repeat it now to my face — an he dare!"
Even as the last of his loudly uttered words resounded through the room, there was a loud knock at the door, and a peremptory voice commanded:
"Open! in the name of His Highness, the Lord Protector of England!"
In the dead silence that followed, the buzz of a fly, the spluttering of wax candles, could be distinctly heard.
In a moment with the sound of that peremptory call outside, tumultuous passions seemed to sink to rest, every cheek paled, and masculine hands instinctively sought the handles of swords whilst lace handkerchiefs
