At the end of the round Lavoulčre spoke to him.

“Where is your brother, Alastair? The so charming youth! He is quite, quite mad!”

“Lamentably so. Rupert, for all I know, is either languishing in an English sponging house, or living upon my hapless brother-in-law’s bounty.”

“That is Miladi Fanny’s husband, yes? Edward Marling, n’est-ce pas? You have only one brother and sister?”

“They more than suffice me,” said his Grace.

Lavoulčre laughed.

“Voyons, it amuses me, your family! Is there no love between you at all?”

“Very little.”

“And yet I have heard that you reared them, those two!”

“I have no recollection of it,” said Justin.

“Come now, Justin, when your mother died you kept a hand on the reins!” expostulated Davenant.

“But lightly, my dear. Enough only to make both a little afraid of me; no more.”

“Lady Fanny is very fond of you.”

“Yes, I believe she is occasionally,” agreed Justin calmly.

“Ah, Miladi Fanny!” Lavoulčre kissed his finger-tips. “Behold! how she is ravissante!”

“Also behold that Hugh wins,” drawled his Grace. “My compliments, Davenant.” He shifted his position slightly, so that he faced Saint-Vire. “Pray how is Madame, your charming wife, dear Comte?”

“Madame is well, I thank you, m’sieur.”

“And the Vicomte, your so enchanting son?”

“Also.”

“Not here to-night, I think?” Avon raised his glass, and through it surveyed the room. “I am desolated. No doubt you deem him too young for these delights? He is but nineteen, I believe?”

Saint-Vire laid his cards face downwards on the table, and looked angrily up at that handsome, enigmatic countenance.

“You are most interested in my son, M. le Duc!”

The hazel eyes widened and narrowed again.

“But how could it be otherwise?” asked the Duke politely.

Saint-Vire picked up his cards again.

“He is at Versailles, with his mother,” he said curtly. “My play, Lavoulčre?”

CHAPTER III

Which tells of a Debt Unpaid

When Davenant returned to the house in the Rue St.-Honoré, he found that although Léon had long since come in, and was now in bed, his Grace was still out. Guessing that Avon had gone from Vassaud’s to visit his latest light o’ love, Hugh went into the library to await him. Soon the Duke sauntered in, poured himself out a glass of canary wine, and came to the fire.

“A most instructive evening. I hope my very dear friend Saint-Vire recovered from the sorrow my early departure must have occasioned him?”

“I think so,” smiled Hugh. He rested his head back against the cushions of his chair, and looked at the Duke with rather a puzzled expression on his face. “Why do you so hate one another, Justin?”

The straight brows rose.

“Hate? I? My dear Hugh!”

“Very well, if you like it better I will say why does Saint-Vire hate you?”

“It is a very old tale, Hugh; almost a forgotten tale. The—er—contretemps between the amiable Comte and myself took place in the days before I had the advantage of possessing your friendship, you see.”

“So there was a contretemps? I suppose you behaved abominably?”

“What I admire in you, my dear, is your charming candour,” remarked his Grace. “But in this instance I did not behave abominably. Amazing, is it not?”

“What happened?”

“Very little. It was really quite trivial. So trivial that nearly every one has forgotten it.”

“It was a woman, of course?”

“Even so. No less a personage than the present Duchesse de Belcour.”

“Duchesse de Belcour?” Hugh sat upright in surprise. “Saint-Vire’s sister? That red-haired shrew?”

“Yes, that red-haired shrew. As far as I remember, I admired her—er—shrewishness—twenty years ago. She was really very lovely.”

“Twenty years ago! So long! Justin, surely you did not——”

“I wanted to wed her,” said Avon pensively. “Being young and foolish. It seems incredible now; yet so it was. I applied for permission to woo her—yes, is it not amusing?—to her worthy father.” He paused, looking into the fire. “I was—let me see! twenty—a little more; I forget. My father and her father had not been the best of friends. Again a woman; I believe my sire won that encounter. I suppose it rankled. And on my side there were, even at that age, my dear, some trifling intrigues.” His shoulders shook. “There always are—in my family. The old Comte refused to give me leave to woo his daughter. Not altogether surprising, you think? No, I did not elope with her. Instead I received a visit from Saint-Vire. He was then Vicomte de Valmé. That visit was almost humiliating.” The lines about Justin’s mouth were grim. “Al-most hu-miliating.”

“For you?”

Avon smiled.

“For me. The noble Henri came to my lodging with a large and heavy whip.” He looked down as Hugh gasped, and the smile grew. “No, my dear, I was not thrashed. To resume: Henri was enraged; there was a something between us, maybe a woman—I forget. He was very much enraged. It should afford me some consolation, that. I had dared to raise my profligate eyes to the daughter of that most austere family of Saint-Vire. Have you ever noticed the austerity? It lies in the fact that the Saint-Vire amours are carried on in secrecy. Mine, as you know, are quite open. You perceive the nice distinction? Bon!” Avon had seated himself on the arm of a chair, legs crossed. He started to twirl his wine glass, holding the narrow stem between thumb and finger. “My licentious—I quote his very words, Hugh—behaviour; my entire lack of morals; my soiled reputation; my vicious mind; my—but I forget the rest. It was epic—all these made my perfectly honourable proposal an insult. I was to understand that I was as the dirt beneath the Saint-Vire feet. There was much more, but at length the noble Henri came to his peroration. For my impudence I was to receive a thrashing at his hands. I! Alastair of Avon!”

“But, Justin, he must have been mad! It was not as though you were low-born! The Alastairs——”

“Precisely. He was mad. These red-haired people, my dear Hugh! And there was something between us. No doubt I had at some time or other behaved abominably to him. There followed, as you may imagine, a short argument. It did not take me long to come to my peroration. In short, I had the pleasure of cutting his face open with his own whip. Out came his sword.” Avon stretched out his arm, and the muscles rippled beneath the satin of his coat sleeve. “I was young, but I knew a little of the art of the duello, even in those days. I pinked him so well that he had to be carried home in my coach, by my lackeys. When he had departed I gave myself up to thought. You see, my dear, I was, or fancied that I was, very much in love with that—er—red-haired shrew. The noble Henri had told me that his sister had deemed herself insulted by my court. It occurred to me that perhaps the lady had mistaken my suit for a casual intrigue. I visited the Hotel Saint-Vire to make known mine intentions. I was received not by her father, but by the noble Henri, reclining upon a couch. There were also some friends of his. I forget. Before them, before his lackeys, he informed me that he stood in—er—loco parentis, and that his sister’s hand was denied me. Further that if I so much as dared to accost her his servants would whip me from her presence.”

“Good God!” cried Hugh.

“So I thought. I retired. What would you? I could not touch the man; I had well-nigh killed him already. When next I appeared in public I found that my visit to the Hôtel Saint-Vire had become the talk of Paris. I was compelled to leave France for a time. Happily another scandal arose which cast mine into the shade, so Paris was once more open to me. It is an old, old story, Hugh, but I have not forgotten.”

“And he?”

“He has not forgotten either. He was half mad at the time, but he would not apologize when he came to his senses; I don’t think I expected him to do so. We meet now as distant acquaintances; we are polite—oh, scrupulously!—but he knows that I am still waiting.”

“Waiting . . . ?”

Justin walked to the table and set down his glass.

“For an opportunity to pay that debt in full,” he said softly.

“Vengeance?” Hugh leaned forward. “I thought you disliked melodrama, my friend?”

“I do; but I have a veritable passion for—justice.”

“You’ve nourished thoughts of—vengeance—for twenty years?”

“My dear Hugh, if you imagine that the lust for vengeance has been my dominating emotion for twenty years, permit me to correct the illusion.”

“Has it not grown cold?” Hugh asked, disregarding.

“Very cold, my dear, but none the less dangerous.”

“And all this time not one opportunity has presented itself?”

“You see, I wish it to be thorough,” apologized the Duke.

“Are you nearer success now than you were—twenty years ago?”

A soundless laugh shook Justin.

“We shall see. Rest assured that when it comes it will be—so!” Very slowly he clenched his hand on his snuff-box, and opened his fingers to show the thin gold crushed.

Hugh gave a little shiver.

“My God, Justin, do you know just how vile you can be?”

“Naturally Do they not call me—Satanas?” The mocking smile came; the eyes glittered.

“I hope to heaven Saint-Vire never puts himself in your power! It seems they were right who named you Satanas!”

“Quite right, my poor Hugh.”

“Does Saint-Vire’s brother know?”

“Armand? No one knows save you, and I, and Saint-Vire. Armand may guess, of course.”