very rapidly of late. He had
been playing the races heavily and ruin stared the man in the face. More
than suspected of dubious play at cards, it had been scarce a week since
the stewards of a leading racetrack had expelled him for running crosses.
Any day a debtor's prison might close on him. Within the hour, as was
afterward learned, his former companion Frederick Prince of Wales had
given him the cut direct on the Mall. Plainly his star was on the decline,
and he raged in a futile passion of hatred against the world. Need it be
said that of all men he most hated his supplanter in the Prince of Wales'
good-will, Sir Robert Volney.

To Volney then, sitting gloomily in his distant solitude, came Craven with
murder in his heart and a bitter jest on his lips. At the other side of
the table he found a seat and glared across at his rival out of a
passion-contorted face. Sir Robert looked past him coldly, negligently, as
if he had not been there, and rising from his seat moved to the other side
of the room. In the manner of his doing it there was something
indescribably insulting; so it seemed to Topham Beauclerc, who retailed to
me the story later.

Craven's evil glance followed Volney, rage in his bloodshot eyes. If a
look could kill, the elegant macaroni had been a dead man then. It is to
be guessed that Craven struggled with his temper and found himself not
strong enough to put a curb upon it; that his heady stress of passion
swept away his fear of Volney's sword. At all events there he sat
glowering blackly on the man at whose charge he chose to lay all his
misfortunes, what time he gulped down like water glass after glass of
brandy. Presently he got to his feet and followed Sir Robert, still
dallying no doubt with the fascinating temptation of fixing a quarrel upon
his rival and killing him. To do him justice Volney endeavoured to avoid
an open rupture with the man. He appeared buried in the paper he was
reading.

"What news?" asked Craven abruptly.

For answer the other laid down the paper, so that Sir James could pick it
up if he chose.

"I see your old rival Montagu is to dance on air to-morrow. 'Gad, you'll
have it all your own way with the wench then," continued Craven
boisterously, the liquor fast mounting to his head.

Volney's eyes grew steelly. He would have left, but the burly purple-faced
baronet cut off his retreat.

"Damme, will you drink with me, or will you play with me, Volney?"

"Thanks, but