Trying to build up a picture of the situation from unreliable reports was not easy, but for a short time Adam felt more hopeful, taking comfort from the reflection that although the Reserve must be terribly weakened Wellington had been able to withdraw his troops in good order, and, apparently, without being much harassed by the enemy. There was no more published news, but as the day dragged on more and more ominous rumours reached London, and were passed from mouth to mouth. The Allied Army had endured a crushing defeat; the remnants of it had fallen back in disorder on Brussels, and had been seen defiling out through the Antwerp gate; deserters from the battlefield had been encountered as far away as Ghent and Antwerp, telling of an unprecedented bombardment, overwhelming attacks by enormous forces of cavalry, hideous carnage.

Adam recognized the falsity of much of what he heard, but it was impossible to maintain optimism under the cumulative weight of reported disaster. When not one scrap of reassuring news was received one could no longer laugh rumours to scorn: even if the stories were grossly exaggerated they must be founded on truth, and one was forced, at last, to confront, not the possibility of defeat, but the incredible certainty of it. The confidence which had burnt like a flame in Adam all the previous day, sunk to embers during the night, and then flickered fitfully but with diminishing strength with his efforts to keep it alive, was not quite dead when he walked down the street to Brooks’s that evening. It still smouldered, but with such a tiny glow that he was barely conscious of it. He felt rather numb, as though he had been battered into insensibility. He tried to realize that the Army had been beaten, but the words conveyed nothing to his brain: they were as meaningless as gibberish. It was easier to realize that he had completed the work of bringing his house to ruin. In the throes of reaction, he had uttered aloud: “My God, what have I done?” in horror at what then seemed an act of madness, but he had still been able to cherish the hope that his gamble would yet prove successful. The little spark of hope that lurked beneath despair and self-blame was no more based on reason than the disbelief that flashed into his brain when some fresh tale of ignoble rout was forced on him. He knew that when he had staked everything he possessed, even Fontley, he had not thought it a gamble, but he could not recapture the confidence that had then prompted him, or understand how he could have been so crassly, so wickedly stupid as to fly in the face of Mr Chawleigh’s advice, and of Wimmering’s entreaties.

The club was crowded, and, for once, very few of its members were in the card-room. Everyone was talking about the reports from Belgium, but there was no fresh news, not a hint that any word had been received at the Horse Guards from the Duke’s Headquarters. In. the large room overlooking St James’s Street Lord Grey was proving to the apparent satisfaction of a numerous audience that Napoleon was established in Brussels at that moment. Napoleon had two hundred thousand men across the Sambre, which set the question beyond argument. Nobody attempted to argue; Sir Robert Wilson began to read aloud a letter which confirmed the rumour that what was left of the Army had evacuated Brussels, and was retreating to the coast.

An elderly stranger, standing beside Adam before one of the windows, said in an angry undervoice: “Gammon! Pernicious humdudgeon! I don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

“No,” Adam replied.

The babel of voices rose; peace terms were being discussed. The noise stopped suddenly as someone said sharply: “Listen!”

The sound of cheering could be heard in the distance. It drew nearer. Adam’s unknown companion thrust his head out of the window, peering up the street in the failing light. He said: “It’s a chaise, I think. Yes, but — here, sir, your eyes are younger than mine! What are those things sticking out of the windows?”

Adam had taken a quick, limping step to the window. He said in a queer voice: “Eagles!”

Chapter XXVI

Pandemonium broke out; there was a rush to the windows; as the post-chaise passed staid gentlemen leaned out, waving and cheering; persons who had never been on more than nodding terms clapped one another on the back; and even the most rabid opponents of the war huzzaed with the best.

Adam stood leaning against the wall, so dizzy that he was obliged to shut his eyes. The room was spinning around; waves of alternate hot and cold swept over him; but he managed to remain on his feet, and to overcome his faintness.

Waiters were sent scurrying for champagne; corks began to pop; and someone called out a toast to Wellington. Everyone drank it; Adam saw that the proposer was one of the Duke’s bitterest critics, and grinned inwardly. The Duke had no critics tonight, only fervent supporters. Adam thought that the enthusiasm would not last for long; but he could not foresee that within three days several of those who were acclaiming Wellington as the country’s saviour would be saying that the battle was rather a defeat than a victory.

Adam did not remain for long in the club, but slipped away presently, and went back to Fenton’s. Kinver was waiting for him, a broad grin on his face. Adam smiled at him with an effort. “Did you see the chaise, Kinver?”

“I should think so, my lord! With the Eagles sticking out of the windows! Three of them!”

Adam sank wearily into the chair before the dressing-table, and put up a hand to drag the pin out of his neckcloth. Kinver said: “I hope you’ll sleep tonight, my lord.”

“I think I could sleep the clock round,” Adam said.

He was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow. Kinver thought he had never seen him look more exhausted. He would have liked to have drawn the curtains round the bed, to guard him from the sunlight that would filter in a few hours through the window-blinds, but he dared not do it: his lordship, accustomed for years to camp-beds, declared himself unable to sleep if snugly curtained from draughts.

But although his room faced east he did sleep the clock round, deeply and dreamlessly, hardly stirring. When he woke at last, the room was full of golden light, subdued by the blinds that Kinver had drawn so closely across the windows. He yawned, and stretched luxuriously, not fully conscious, but aware of a sense of well-being. As he remembered the cause of this, his first thought was one of rejoicing in the victory. Then he realized, as he had scarcely been able to do before, that he was not ruined, but probably richer than he had ever been.

The door creaked; he saw Kinver peeping cautiously at him, and said lazily: “I’m awake. What’s the time?”

“Just gone eleven, my lord,” Kinver answered, pulling back the blinds.

“Good God, have I slept as long as that? I must get up!” He swung his feet to the floor, and stood up, slipping his arms into the sleeves of the dressing-gown Kinver was holding for him. “Tell ’em to send up breakfast directly, will you? I’m as hungry as a hawk! Have the newspapers come?”

“Yes, my lord, they’re laid out for you in the parlour. It looks like Bonaparte’s been sent to grass all right and regular this time.”

He went off to order breakfast, and Adam walked into the adjoining parlour, and opened the Gazette, sitting down at the table to read the Waterloo Despatch. He had just come to the end of it when his breakfast was brought in. He was looking grave, which made Kinver say, as the waiter withdrew; “He is beat, isn’t he, my lord?”

“To flinders, I should suppose. But, my God! twelve hours of it! I’m afraid our losses must have been enormous.” He laid the Gazette aside, and as he did so caught sight of the date on it. He stared at it incredulously, exclaiming: “Wednesday, 21st June? Oh, my God!” He saw that Kinver was looking bewildered, and said: “The dinner-party for Miss Lydia’s engagement! Now I am in the basket! Why the devil didn’t you wake me hours ago?”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry, my lord!” Kinver said, much dismayed. “What with the excitement — and you saying you’d like to sleep the clock round — it went clean out of my head!”

“Out of mine too. Can it really be Wednesday? Surely — ” He passed a hand over his brow, trying to reckon the days. “Yes, I suppose it must be. Oh, lord!”

“Do you eat your breakfast, my lord, and I’ll send to warn the boys that you’ll be needing the chaise in an hour’s time!” suggested Kinver. “Well be at Fontley by nine, maybe earlier.”

Adam hesitated, and then shook his head. “No, it won’t do, I must see Wimmering before I leave town. Warn the boys to be ready to set forward, however — at about two, perhaps. I’m surprised Wimmering hasn’t been here to see me.”

“Well, my lord, Mr Wimmering did call,” disclosed Kinver. guiltily. “But when I told him you was abed and asleep, he wouldn’t have you wakened, but said he would call again this afternoon.”

“I see. I expect you meant it for the best, but I’m not going to sit kicking my heels here: I shall have to drive into the City.” He then thought, that it would be as well to see Drummond too, and smiled at his chagrined valet. “Never mind! I must have gone to Drummond’s in any event.”

His call at the bank lasted for longer than he had anticipated, for Mr Drummond considered the occasion worthy of his very special sherry. Civility compelled Adam to conceal his impatience to be gone, so that it was already two o’clock when he reached Wimmering’s place of business.

Wimmering had been on the point of setting out for Fenton’s, and exclaimed in disapproval: “My lord! You should not have put yourself to the inconvenience of coming, to me! I left word with your man that I would call again!