FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE

These are few social historians of those days who have not told of the
long and fierce struggle between those two famous bucks, Sir Charles
Tregellis and Lord Barrymore, for the Lordship of the Kingdom of St.
James, a struggle which divided the whole of fashionable London into two
opposing camps. It has been chronicled also how the peer retired
suddenly and the commoner resumed his great career without a rival. Only
here, however, one can read the real and remarkable reason for this
sudden eclipse of a star.

It was one morning in the days of this famous struggle that Sir Charles
Tregellis was performing his very complicated toilet, and Ambrose, his
valet, was helping him to attain that pitch of perfection which had long
gained him the reputation of being the best-dressed man in town. Suddenly
Sir Charles paused, his _coup d'archet_ half-executed, the final beauty
of his neck-cloth half-achieved, while he listened with surprise and
indignation upon his large, comely, fresh-complexioned face. Below, the
decorous hum of Jermyn Street had been broken by the sharp, staccato,
metallic beating of a doorknocker.

"I begin to think that this uproar must be at our door," said Sir
Charles, as one who thinks aloud. "For five minutes it has come and
gone; yet Perkins has his orders."

At a gesture from his master Ambrose stepped out upon the balcony and
craned his discreet head over it. From the street below came a voice,
drawling but clear.

"You would oblige me vastly, fellow, if you would do me the favour to
open this door," said the voice.

"Who is it? What is it?" asked the scandalised Sir Charles, with his
arrested elbow still pointing upwards.

Ambrose had returned with as much surprise upon his dark face as the
etiquette of his position would allow him to show.

"It is a young gentleman, Sir Charles."

"A young gentleman? There is no one in London who is not aware that I do
not show before midday. Do you know the person? Have you seen him
before?"

"I have not seen him, sir, but he is very like some one I could name."

"Like some one? Like whom?"

"With all respect, Sir Charles, I could for a moment have believed that
it was yourself when I looked down. A smaller man, sir, and a youth; but
the voice, the face, the bearing--"

"It must be that young cub Vereker, my brother's ne'er-do-weel," muttered
Sir Charles, continuing his toilet. "I have heard that there are points