My Lord Barham rose from his table across the room, and stood for a moment talking to March. One or two men gathered around them, after a moment a dice-box was produced, and March cast the dice on the table. Heads were bent over it; there was a laugh, and a murmur of speech, and my Lord Barham swept up the dice.
Mr Markham chanced that moment to look up. He saw my lord shake back his ruffles, and with eyes growing gradually wider he saw him throw the dice with a curious flick of the wrist.
Mr Markham was in the act of dealing, but his hand with three cards in it stayed poised in mid-air, and he continued to stare across at my lord, his jaw slightly dropped.
‘What’s to do now?’ demanded Rensley. ‘Gad, have you remembered,’ he added eagerly.
‘That man – why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.’
It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. ‘So few people nowadays understand the art!’ he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. ‘My cousin! I salute you!’ he said.
Mr Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. ‘Damn it, don’t call me cousin!’ he said loudly. ‘You’re no more than a cursed gamester!’
There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Who told you that?’
Markham put down the pack of cards. ‘I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,’ he said.
My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. ‘Then that must have been where I met you!’ he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. ‘I thought your face familiar from the first.’
At the lansquenet table Sir Anthony gave a low laugh. ‘Faith, I begin to have a liking for the old gentleman!’ he said.
‘You admit it, do you?’ Mr Rensley felt his words fall lamely upon expectant ears.
‘Admit what?’ said my lord, puzzled.
‘Why – damme, that you’ve kept a common gaming-house!’
My lord’s hand was raised. ‘No!’ he said emphatically, and a sigh went round the room. His next words dispelled relief. ‘Never in all my life have I kept anything that was common! You insult me by the suggestion.’
There was a low ripple of laughter. People were gathering about that corner of the room, eager to hear what might be the issue.
‘No use to play with words, fellow. That won’t serve,’ Rensley cried angrily. ‘Have you kept a gaming-house?’
The old gentleman took snuff. ‘I have kept at least a dozen, my dear Rensley,’ he said, with perfect composure. He looked again towards Mr Markham. ‘I am not entirely satisfied,’ he mused. ‘Are you sure you never had lessons in fencing from me, sir?’
There was a gasp. All play was at an end in the card-room. My Lord March burst out laughing. ‘Gad, Barham, have you been a fencing-master, too?’ he exclaimed.
The old gentleman shut his gold snuff-box with a snap. ‘My dear March,’ he said haughtily, ‘there is nothing I have not been!’ He looked again at Mr Markham. ‘Are you quite sure I did not give you lessons in fencing? Let me think a moment! Yes, I had an establishment in Rome once, and – yes, yes, another in Turin!’
‘It’s quite possible, no doubt,’ sneered Mr Markham. ‘I don’t trouble to remember all my fencing instructors.’
‘Then of a certainty you are not a pupil of mine,’ said my lord. ‘Me you could never forget. For those whom I taught are masters of fence. It goes without saying. I am incomparable. I have no equal in the art!’
Again March broke in. ‘I’d give something to hear the story of your life, Barham!’ he said, hugely entertained.
Rensley flushed. ‘His name’s not Barham!’ he said furiously. ‘He’s the impostor I always said he was!’
March froze to instant haughtiness. ‘He has at least the advantage of you in the matter of good manners, Rensley,’ he said.
Public opinion veered round in favour of the old gentleman.
‘It’s very, very deplorable,’ Mr Devereux said, with a mournful shake of the head. ‘But he might be all these damned bourgeois things and still remain Tremaine of Barham.’
‘You’re pleased to give him countenance, my lord, but you shall see him exposed!’ Rensley snapped.
‘But expose me!’ cried the old gentleman, and threw wide his arms. ‘I am here to answer you. Who then am I?’
‘Good God, am I to know who you are?’ exclaimed Rensley. ‘But you are not Tremaine! Why, you couldn’t tell me a thing about the family that’s not known to the whole world!’