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"Oh, never thought it would turn up; trusted to a fluke." He whom the Punjaub knew as the Sword of the Evil One, but who held in polite society the title of Lord Kergenven, drank some hock slowly, and murmured as his sole quota to the conversation, very lazily and languidly: "Bet you he isn't dead at all." "The deuce you do?
And why?" chorused the table; "when a fellow's body's found with all his traps round him!" "I don't believe he's dead," murmured Kergenven with closed, slumberous eyes. "But why? Have you heard anything?" "Not a word." "Why do you say he's alive, then?" My lord lifted his brows ever so little. "I think so, that's all." "But you must have a reason, Ker?"
With which declaration of his views, Kergenven lapsed into immutable silence and slumberous apathy, from whose shelter nothing could tempt him afresh; and the Colonel, with all the rest, lounged into the anteroom, where the tables were set, and began "plunging" in earnest at sums that might sound fabulous, were they written here.
The players staked heavily; but it was the gallery who watched around, making their bets, and backing their favorites, that lost on the whole the most. "Horse Guards have heard of the plunging; think we're going too fast," murmured the Chief to Kergenven, his Major, who lifted his brows, and murmured back with the demureness of a maiden: "Tell 'em it's our only vice; we're models of propriety."
Badgered into speech, Kergenven drank a little more hock, and dropped out slowly, in the mellowest voice in the world, the following: "It don't follow one has reasons for anything; pray don't get logical. Two years ago I was out in a chasse au sanglier, central France; perhaps you don't know their work? It's uncommonly queer.
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