LORD OF MANY SECRETS

FORTY EIGHT

Patrick shrugged. "There was no avoiding it. The fellow insulted me, I landed him a facer, and received his challenge".

"I am sorry for it", Mr Tellaro said, with a grave look.

"Oh, as to that I do not anticipate any very serious consequences", said Patrick decidedly. "I need not engage your silence, I am sure. You will understand that I don't want the affair to come to my sister's or to Miss Mamala's ears".

Mr Tellaro bowed. "Certainly. You may trust me in that. Who acts for you?"

"Frieze". Patrick fidgeted with his fob. "Bartholomew, if anything should happen to me - if I should not return, in short - you will keep your eye upon Elizabeth, won't you? She is in Clements' hands, of course, but she doesn't like him, and you are our cousin, and will see she doesn't come to harm".

"Yes", said Mr Tellaro rather curtly. He got up. "I'll leave you now, you have your affairs to settle. Believe me, I am sorry for this".

Patrick spent the rest of the day very sensibly. He went to Clarkson's saloon, and forgot his troubles in sparring, and from there drove to Banana Street to solicit permission to take Miss Mamala to the Park in his tilbury. Dinner at Clinton's Hotel, a visit to Delhi Lane, and supper at the Piazzra Coffee House ended the day, and he returned soon after midnight to Spear Street too weary to be kept long awake by his thoughts.

His valet, who had of necessity been taken into his confidence, drew back the bed-curtains at six o'clock next morning and began to get the shaving tackle ready, while Patrick, with his night cap over one eye, sat up and sipped a cup of hot chocolate. One is the chamber maids brought in a bundle of sticks bound together as fuel, and kindled a fire in the empty grate. It was a raw morning, and the fact of being obliged to dress by candle-light was curiously depressing.

When the chamber maid had gone Patrick got out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and sat down before the mirror to be shaved. His valet, whom he had brought with him from Tellaro, was looking very gloomy, and when Patrick made a careful choice amongst his many suits of clothes he heaved a gusty sigh, and seemed to think such particularity frivolous. But Patrick, wondering in his heart whether this might be the last choice he would make, was determined not to let it appear that he had not cared to bestow all his usual attention on his appearance.

He put on a pair of buff pantaloons and a light waistcoat, arranged his cravat with great nicety, struggled into a blue coat with silver buttons, and pulled on a pair of Hessians with swinging tassels. "My new hat, John, and I will wear the large driving coat with the Belcher handkerchief".

"Oh, sir!" groaned the valet, "I never thought to live to see this day!"

Patrick's underlip trembled slightly, but a gleam entered his eyes, and he said with the quiver of a laugh, "you! Why it is I who might rather be wondering whether I shall live to see very much of this day!"

"If only we had never come to Rome!" said the valet.

"Shush!" said Patrick, who found no comfort in this conversation. "What's the time? Past seven, is it? Very well, help me into this coat, and I'll be off. You can snuff the candles now, it is growing quite bright. You have those letters I gave you?"

"I have them in my pocket now, sir, but please God I won't be called on to do more than burn them!"

"Why, certainly", said Patrick, picking up his hat and gloves. He stretched out his right hand, and watched it closely. It was steady enough. That cheered him a little. He went softly out of the room and down the stairs, followed by the valet, who carried a branch of candles to light the darkened stairway, and drew back the bolts of the front door.

A neat town coach was drawn up outside the house, and Mr Fritzwa was standing on the pavement, muffled in a great coat and consulting his watch.

"Good bye, James", said Patrick. "And if I don't see you again - well, good bye, and don't forget the letters. I'm not late, Fritz, am I?"

"Bang up to the mark", Mr Fritzwa assured him. He ran an eye over Patrick's person, and seemed satisfied. "Get in, Parte. Did you sleep well?"

"Sleep, Lord, yes! Never stirred till my man roused me this morning!" replied Patrick, taking his place in the coach.

"Damn, you might be an old hand!" remarked Mr Fritzwa approvingly. "Is this your first meeting, or have you been out before?"

"Well, no, as a matter of fact, it is my first", confessed Patrick. "But not, I hope, my last".

"No fear of that", said Mr Fritzwa, rather too heartily. He began to prod the opposite seat with the tip of his walking-cane. "You don't want to kill him, and I can't for the life of me see why he should want to kill you. At the same time, Parte, it don't do to take chances, and you'll fire the moment the word's given, do you see? You've shot at Mattie's, haven't you? Well, you know how to come up quick on to the mark, and all you have to do is to fancy yourself at the Gallery, firing at a wafer. There's no difference".

Patrick withdrew his gaze from the passing houses and gave his friend a long clear look. "Is there no difference?" he asked.

Mr Fritzwa met his eyes for a moment, and then studied the head of his cane. "Yes, there is a difference", he said. "But my father once told me that the secret of a good duelist is to imagine that there is none".

Patrick nodded and picked up the flat case that lay on the seat opposite and opened it. A pair of plain dueling pistols lay in it.

"You can handle them, they're not loaded", said Mr Fritzwa.