"And his coat had been nearly ripped off him; I saw it under his cape!"
"Ah?" said Barnabas, still busy with his neckcloth.
"And naturally enough," pursued the Viscount, "I've been trying to
imagine--yes, Bev, I've been racking my brain most damnably,
wondering why you--did it?
"It was in the wood," said Barnabas.
"So it was you, then?"
"Yes, Dick."
"But--he didn't even mark you?"
"He lost his temper, Dick."
"You thrashed--Carnaby! Gad, Bev, there isn't a milling cove in
England could have done it."
"Yes--there are two--Natty Bell, and Glorious John."
"And I'll warrant he deserved it, Bev."
"I think so," said Barnabas; "it was in the wood, Dick."
"The wood? Ah! do you mean where you--"
"Where I found her lying unconscious."
"Unconscious! And with him beside her! My God, man!" cried the
Viscount, with a vicious snap of his teeth. "Why didn't you kill him?"
"Because I was beside her--first, Dick."
"Damn him!" exclaimed the Viscount bitterly.
"But he is your friend, Dick."
"Was, Bev, was! We'll make it in the past tense hereafter."
"Then you agree with your father after all?"
"I do, Bev; my father is a cursed, long-sighted, devilish observant
man! I'll back him against anybody, though he is such a Roman. But oh,
the devil!" exclaimed the Viscount suddenly, "you can never ride in
the race after this."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll meet Carnaby; and that mustn't happen."
"Why not?"
"Because he'll shoot you."
"You mean he'd challenge me? Hum," said Barnabas, "that is awkward!
But I can't give up the race."
"Then what shall you do?"
"Risk it, Dick."
But now, Mr. Smivvle, who from an adjoining corner had been an
interested spectator thus far, emerged, and flourishing off the
curly-brimmed hat, bowed profoundly, and addressed himself to the
Viscount.
"I believe," said he, smiling affably, "that I have the pleasure to
behold Viscount Devenham?"
"The same, sir," rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.
"You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?"
The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.
"No, I don't, sir."
Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.
"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though
perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"
The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.
"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.
Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.
"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse--the
multitude--the ah--the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir,
--a Smivvle, every inch of me,--while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,'
and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a
friend--"