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  ‘What, me?’ said Wragby, affronted. ‘It would take a better man than that silly bite to slip through my fingers, sir!’

  He then haled Mr Liversedge up a narrow, twisted stair to the kitchen, planted him in a wooden chair, and after informing him that he was a chub to have bearded such a neck-or-nothing blade as the Captain, congratulated him on his narrow escape from death by strangulation. Mr Liversedge, never one to let opportunity slide, made several ingenious attempts to convince him that enormous benefits would be his if he chose to ally himself with his prisoner, but Wragby, after listening to him admiringly, said that he was as bold as Beauchamp, but that if he wanted a bite of supper he had best stop pitching his gammon. Mr Liversedge, making the best of things, accepted this counsel, and pulled his chair up to the table.

  Captain Ware, in spite of having chosen an unorthodox way of applying for it, had no difficulty in persuading his Colonel to grant him leave of absence. The Colonel not only considered Gideon one of his more promising officers, but he very much disliked scandal attaching to any member of his regiment. He no sooner learned that Gideon wished to go in search of his cousin than he said that he was very glad to hear it, and trusted that he would not return to town without him.

  Leaving the Colonel, Gideon hesitated on the brink of paying a call on his father, and then decided that it would be wiser to write to him. He had no wish to be obliged to enter into lengthy explanations, and still less to find himself with Lord Lionel as another passenger in his carriage. It was by this time too late for his dinner-engagement at the Daffy Club, even had he not been too much disturbed by Gilly’s plight to have any inclination for a convivial party. He walked into Stephen’s Hotel instead, in Bond Street, where, since his was a known face, and one, moreover, that belonged to the military set, he was made discreetly welcome, and led to a vacant table in the coffee-room. The dinner which was served was well-chosen, and well-cooked, but the Captain made a poor meal. Had it been practicable, he would have preferred to have left town that evening. He had no very real fear that the Duke would be murdered by Mr Liversedge’s confederates, but he hated to think of Gilly in the hands of villains who might use him roughly, or incarcerate him in some comfortless stronghold. How he had got himself into such a situation Gideon could not imagine, although he suspected that the adventure he had hinted at had something to do with Mr Liversedge. He had never supposed that anything other than the mildest excitement would befall Gilly, and Mr Liversedge’s disclosure had come to him as a shock that brought with it a revulsion of feeling. He now realised that he had been a fool to imagine that Gilly, all untried as he was, could fend for himself. If he had had a grain of sense he would have applied for leave a week earlier, and joined Gilly on his adventures. Then he remembered the mischievous twinkle in Gilly’s eyes when he had last seen him, and his refusal to divulge his destination, or even his purpose in leaving London. Gilly had not wanted his cousin’s company, and that fact alone ought to have put a sane man on his guard. Captain Ware, as the wine grew low in the bottle, began to feel little better than a murderer. His imagination played round Gilly’s present lot, and it was with an effort that he refrained from jumping up and striding out of the hotel. To remain inactive while Gilly might need him urgently was almost more than he could bear; and had there been a full moon he thought he must have set out on his journey immediately. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that if Gilly knew Liversedge’s destination he would know also that his big cousin would come speedily to his rescue; but it did not seem probable that Liversedge would have told him, in which case he must have given himself up for lost.

  When he reached his chambers again, he found that Wragby, by way of facilitating his task, had, as he phrased it, given his charge such liberal potations of strip-me-naked that he was now quite shot in the neck, and sleeping heavily upon the kitchen-floor.

  ‘What a waste of good gin!’ remarked Gideon.

  ‘Ah, but it weren’t the good gin, sir!’ replied his henchman.

  Gideon went into his sitting-room, and sat down to write a brief note to his father. He informed him merely that he had discovered a clue to Gilly’s whereabouts, and was going out of town to find him. After that he went to bed, warning Wragby to be ready to make an early start next morning. Wragby said that there would be no difficulty about that, except that they might have to carry Mr Liversedge down to the curricle, since he would undoubtedly be stale-drunk after imbibing so much bad gin.

  Seventeen

  The Duke came to himself slowly and painfully. While the cart in which he was conveyed some five miles to the Bird in Hand jolted its way down the rough lane which Mr Shifnal chose in understandable preference to the pike-road, he lay for some time unconscious, and for the last mile in a queer state between swooning and waking. He seemed to himself to be suffering some nightmare. It hurt him to move his head, and his eyelids were weighted. When he tried to open them knives stabbed behind them. At moments he was aware of movement, even of hands feeling his brow, and his wrists, and of a vaguely familiar voice speaking from a great distance away; but for long periods of time he sank back into uneasy oblivion, these merciful lapses being largely brought on by the bumping of the wheels over all the inequalities of the road. Each lurch caused him exquisite torment, for Mr Liversedge had struck hard, and with a heavy cudgel, and not only the Duke’s head, but his neck and spine had suffered. He was in one of these deep swoons when he was lifted out of the cart, and carried into the Bird in Hand through the back-door, so he knew nothing of the violent altercation which raged over his body, or of the disaster prophesied by Mr Mimms.

  When he began to come more fully to his senses, it still hurt him to open his eyes, or to move his head, but he was regaining command over his faculties, and he knew that this weakness must be overcome. He forced himself to lift his eyelids, but winced as light struck against his aching eyeballs. Something cold and wet was laid across his brow; a voice said encouragingly: ‘That’s the dandy, now! You want to bite on the bridle, lad, and you’ll be as right as a trivet! Take a sup of this! Come on, now! open your mummer! There’s nothing like a glass of blood-and-thunder to put a cove in high gig!’

  A hand slid under his head, raising it. The Duke bit back an involuntary groan, and rather helplessly swallowed a mouthful of the fiery potion being held to his lips. Then he lifted a wavering hand to thrust the glass aside.

  ‘Have another sup, and you’ll feel as good as ever twanged!’

  The Duke knew from experience that nothing aggravated his periodic headaches more than liquor. In his hazy state of mind the only thing he knew was that one of these, and an unusually severe one, had attacked him. He whispered: ‘No.’

  ‘Dashed if you aren’t too green to know what’s good for you!’ remarked Mr Shifnal, lowering him again.

  ‘Water!’ uttered the Duke.

  ‘Well, you can have it if you want it,’ said Mr Shifnal. ‘But I never knew Adam’s ale do anyone a mite of good. What’s more, I’ll have to drink up this here blood-and-thunder, if you want to put water in your glass.’ He accomplished this task without difficulty, poured some water into the glass, and once more lifted the Duke’s head. When he had let him sink back again on to the dirty mattress which had been laid on the floor to receive him, he lifted up the candlestick and closely studied his prisoner’s face. ‘I’m bound to own you look like a death’s head on a mopstick,’ he said candidly. ‘Howsever, I don’t fancy as you’ll be put to bed feet first this journey. What you want to do is to shut your ogles, and have a sleep.’

  The Duke was only too glad to do so, for the little flame of the candle hurt his eyes. Mr Shifnal spread an aged horse-blanket over him, and went away, leaving him in Stygian gloom. The Duke slept, woke, and slept again.

  When he woke fully, his head, although still aching, was rather better. It was propped up on a lumpy cushion, from which arose an unpleasant aroma of dirt and mildew.