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"Nay," cried Winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood about her, "go forward with your fell design. I am here. I am helpless. Let no prayers stay your hand. Go to it." "Have done with this!" cried Wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "Shove her in the coach."
With a profound bow, Lord Wynchgate took his leave. Lord Mordaunt and his bride were married forthwith in the parish church of Muddlenut Chase. With Winnifred's money they have drained the moat, rebuilt the Chase, and chased the bulls out of the park.
"My lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features the habitués of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome lineaments of the Marquis of Frogwater, British Ambassador to Siam, "let us have no quarrelling. Come, Wynchgate, come, Dogwood," he continued, with a mild oath, "put up your swords.
It were a shame to waste time in private quarrelling. They may be needed all too soon in Cochin China, or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in Cambodia or in Dutch Guinea." "Frogwater," said young Lord Dogwood, with a generous flush, "I was wrong. Wynchgate, your hand." The two noblemen shook hands.
But we have already connected her with Floyd-ap-Floyd, who murdered Prince Llewellyn." "Oh, sir," cried the grateful girl. "I only hope I may prove worthy of them!" "One thing more," said Lord Mordaunt, and stepping over to another curtain he drew it aside and there emerged Lord Wynchgate.
"Not so," cried Wynchgate, reaching out and seizing his intended victim by the wrist, "not till I have at least seen the colour of those eyes and imprinted a kiss upon those fair lips." With a brutal laugh, he drew the struggling girl towards him.
"Dogwood," said Wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or you shall measure the length of my sword." Both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords.
Had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of Lord Wynchgate, one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of Britain, and the figure was his too. "Ha!" exclaimed the dissolute Aristocrat, "whom have we here? Stay, pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that I divine behind your veil." "Sir," said Winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, I pray."
But something in the brutal violence of his behaviour seemed to kindle for the moment a spark of manly feeling, if such there were, in the breasts of his companions. "Wynchgate," cried young Lord Dogwood, "my mind misgives me. I doubt if this is a gentlemanly thing to do. I'll have no further hand in it." A chorus of approval from his companions endorsed his utterance. For a moment they hesitated.
Seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion, each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind. Lord Wynchgate for he it was who sat at the head of the table rose with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table. All turned and looked at him, with an oath.
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