to carry them with him
to his father's house. But as his eye fell upon the characters, the hand
suddenly trembled, and he recoiled some paces, as if struck by a violent
blow. Then, gazing more intently on the writing, a low cry broke from
his lips. He reseated himself, and began to read.

CHAPTER XI.

Randal--with many misgivings at Lord L'Estrange's tone, in which he
was at no loss to detect a latent irony--proceeded to Norwood. He found
Riccabocca exceedingly cold and distant; but he soon brought that sage
to communicate the suspicions which Lord L'Estrange had instilled
into his mind, and these Randal was as speedily enabled to dispel. He
accounted at once for his visits to Levy and Peschiera. Naturally he had
sought Levy, an acquaintance of his own,--nay, of Audley Egerton's,--but
whom he knew to be professionally employed by the count. He had
succeeded in extracting from the baron Peschiera's suspicious change of
lodgment from Mivart's Hotel to the purlieus of Leicester Square; had
called there on the count, forced an entrance, openly accused him
of abstracting Violante; high words had passed between them,--even a
challenge. Randal produced a note from a military friend of his, whom he
had sent to the count an hour after quitting the hotel. This note stated
that arrangements were made for a meeting near Lord's Cricket Ground,
at seven o'clock the next morning. Randal then submitted to Riccabocca
another formal memorandum from the same warlike friend, to the purport
that Randal and himself had repaired to the ground, and no count had
been forthcoming. It must be owned that Randal had taken all suitable
precautions to clear himself. Such a man is not to blame for want of
invention, if he be sometimes doomed to fail.

"I, then, much alarmed," continued Randal, "hastened to Baron Levy, who
informed me that the count had written him word that he should be for
some time absent from England. Rushing thence, in despair, to your
friend Lord L'Estrange, I heard that your daughter was safe with you.
And though, as I have just proved, I would have risked my life against
so notorious a duellist as the count, on the mere chance of preserving
Violante from his supposed designs, I am rejoiced to think that she had
no need of my unskilful arm. But how and why can the count have left
England after accepting a challenge? A man so sure of his weapon,
too,--reputed to be as fearless of danger as he is blunt in conscience.
Expl