“I wish you would not use that horrid cant. A moment ago you said he had been drinking Blue Ruin.”

“It’s the same thing,” grinned Peregrine. “You can call it a Flash of Lightning, if you like, or Old Tom. It means gin, my dear.” He laughed at her face of disgust, gave her a careless embrace, and with a glance at the clock exclaimed that it was after three already, and he must be off. Her only satisfaction was in seeing him drive away with a competent groom up beside him instead of one who would have been more at home in a prize ring.

The road to Worthing ran through the village of Hove, past the ruins of Aldrington, and along the low cliffs to New Shoreham and Lancing, and thus on by Sompting and Broadwater. Peregrine drove past the end of the Steyne and up on to the East Cliff at a sedate pace, and just beyond the Old Ship was about to let his horses show their paces along the less crowded West Cliff when a light phaeton suddenly swept round the corner of West Street, and its driver, catching sight of him, pulled up his horses and signalled to him to stop.

Peregrine obediently drew rein alongside the phaeton, and hoped that his guardian did not mean to detain him long. “How do you do? I am just on my way to Worthing.”

“Then I have caught you in time,” replied the Earl. “I want your signature to one or two documents.”

Peregrine pulled a face. “Now?” he asked.

“Yes, certainly now. There is also another matter of business which I must discuss with you, but I hardly think the street is a suitable place for that.”

“But could I not call on you to-morrow?” said Peregrine.

“My good boy, is your engagement in Worthing so pressing that you cannot spare me half an hour? To-morrow might suit you better, but it would be highly inconvenient to me. I am going to the races.”

“Oh well!” sighed Peregrine. “I suppose I must come then, if you make such a point of it.”

The Earl felt his horses’ mouths with a movement of his long fingers on the reins. “I have often had it in mind to ask you, Peregrine, why your father omitted to send you up to Oxford,” he remarked. “It would have done you so much good.”

Peregrine reddened, turned his horse, and followed rather sulkily in the wake of the phaeton.

The house which Worth rented on the Steyne stood on the corner of St. James’s Street, and had the advantage of a yard and stables to the rear. Worth led the way into the cobbled alley that ran behind the house, drove his phaeton into the yard, and got down. Henry scrambled from his perch and took charge of the horses, just as Peregrine’s tilbury entered the yard.

“You had better tell your man to take the horses into the stable,” said the Earl, stripping off his gloves.

“I thought he might as well walk them up and down,” objected Peregrine: “I shall not be as long as that, surely?”

“Just as you please,” shrugged the Earl. “They are not my horses.”

“Oh, very well, do as his lordship says, Tyler,” said Peregrine, climbing down from his seat. “I shall want them again in half an hour, mind!”

This was said in a firm tone that-was meant to indicate to the Earl that half an hour was the limit Peregrine had fixed to the interview, but as Worth was already strolling away towards some iron steps leading up to a back door into the house it was doubtful whether he had heard the speech. Peregrine went up the stairs behind him wishing that he were ten years older, and able to assume a manner ten times more assured than the Earl’s own.

The door opened into a passage that ran from the hall to the back of the house. It was not locked, and the Earl led Peregrine through it to his book-room, a square apartment with windows on to St. James’s Street. The room was furnished in a somewhat sombre style, and the net blinds that hung across the window while preventing the curious from looking in also obscured a good deal of light.

The Earl tossed his glove on to the table and turned to see Peregrine glancing about him rather disparagingly. He smiled, and said: “Yes, you are really better off on the Marine Parade, are you not?”

Peregrine looked quickly across at him. “Then this was the house my sister wanted!”

“Why, of course! Had you not guessed as much?”

“Well, I did not think a great deal about it,” confessed Peregrine. “It was Judith who was so set on—” He stopped, and laughed ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know which of the two she did want!” he said.

“She very naturally wanted the one I told her she was not to have,” replied the Earl, moving over to a console-table where a decanter of wine and two glasses had been placed. “Fortunately I was able to read her intention just in time to retrieve my own mistake in ever mentioning this house.”

“Ay, and devilish cross you made her,” said Peregrine.

“There is nothing very new in that,” said the Earl in his driest voice.

“Oh, she had not been disliking you for a long time then, you know,” said Peregrine, inspecting a round table snuff-box with a loose lid that stood on the Earl’s desk. “In fact, quite the reverse.”

The Earl was standing with his back to the room, but he glanced over his shoulder, holding the decanter poised for a moment over one of the glasses. “Indeed! What may that mean?”

“Lord, nothing in particular!” said Peregrine. “What should it mean?”

“I wish I knew,” said the Earl, and returned to his task of filling the glasses.

Peregrine looked at him rather sharply, and after fidgeting with the lid of the snuff-box for a moment blurted out: “May I ask you a question, sir?”

“Certainly,” said the Earl, replacing the stopper in the decanter.

“What is it?”

“I daresay you won’t like it, and of course I may he wrong,” said Peregrine, “but I am Judith’s brother, and I did think at one time, when my cousin hinted at it, that you might be—well, what I wish to ask you is—is, in short—”

“I know exactly what you wish to ask me,” said the Earl, handing him one of the glasses.

“Oh!” Peregrine accepted the glass, and looked at him doubtfully.

“I can appreciate your anxiety,” continued the Earl, a trifle maliciously. “The thought of being saddled with me as a brother-in-law must be extremely unnerving.”

“I did not mean that!” said Peregrine hastily. “Moreover, I don’t believe there is the least fear—I mean, chance—of it coming to pass.”

“Possibly not,” said the Earl. “But ‘fear’ was probably the right word. Would you like to continue this conversation, or shall we turn to your own affairs?”

“I thought you would not like it,” said Peregrine, not without a certain satisfaction. “Ay, let us by all means settle the business. I am ready.”

“Well, sit down,” said the Earl, opening one of the drawers in his desk. “This is the deed of settlement I want you to sign.” He took out an official-looking document and gave it to Peregrine.

Peregrine reached out his hand for a pen, but was checked by the Earl’s raised brows.

“I am flattered by this blind trust in my integrity,” Worth said, “but I beg you won’t sign papers without first reading them.”

“Of course I should not do so in the ordinary way! But you are my guardian, ain’t you? Oh lord, what stuff it is! There’s no making head or tail of it!” With which pessimistic utterance Peregrine fortified himself with a gulp of wine, and leaned back in his chair to peruse the document. “I knew what it would be! Aforesaid and hereinafter until there is no sense to be made of it” He raised the glass to his lips again and sipped. Then he lowered it and looked at the Earl. “What is this?” he asked.

The Earl had seated himself at his desk, and was glancing over another of the documents that awaited Peregrine’s signature. “That, my dear Peregrine, is what Brummell would describe as the hot, intoxicating liquor so much drunk by the lower orders. In a word, it is port.”

“Well, I thought it was, but it seems to me to taste very odd.”

“I am sorry that you should think so,” replied the Earl politely. “You have the distinction of being alone in that opinion.”

“Oh, I did not mean to say that it was not good port!” said Peregrine, blushing furiously. “I am not a judge. I’ve no doubt of it being capital stuff!” He took another sip, and returned to the task of mastering the deed of settlement. The Earl sat with his elbow on the desk, and his chin resting on his hand, watching him.

The words began to move queerly under Peregrine’s eyes. He blinked, and was conscious all at once of a strong feeling of lassitude. Something in his head was making a buzzing sound; his ears felt thick, as though wool had been stuffed in them. He looked up, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I beg pardon—don’t feel quite the thing. A sudden dizziness—can’t understand it.” He lifted his half-empty wine-glass to his lips, but paused before he drank, staring at Worth with a look of frightened suspicion in his eyes.

The Earl was sitting quite still, impassively regarding him. One of the cut-steel buttons on his coat attracted and held Peregrine’s cloudy gaze until he forced himself to look away from it. His brain felt a little stupid; he found himself speculating on the snowy folds of Worth’s cravat. He himself had tried so often to achieve a Water-fall, and always failed. “I can’t tie mine like that,” he said. “Water-fall.”

“You will one day,” answered the Earl.

“My head feels so queer,” Peregrine muttered.

“The room is a trifle hot. I will open the window in a minute. Go on reading.”

Peregrine dragged his eyes away from that fascinating cravat and tried to focus them on the Earl’s face. He made an effort to collect his wandering wits. The paper he was holding slipped from his fingers to the ground. “No!” he said. “It’s not the room!” He staggered to his feet and stood swaying. “Why do you look at me like that? The wine! What have you put in the wine? By God, you sh-shall answer me!”