und into indistinguishable
amalgamation; two of the amalgamated jammed head foremost in a carriage
alone; only traps in carriage with them, Beauty's traps, with name clear
on the brass outside, and crest clear on silver things inside; two men
ground to atoms, but traps safe; two men, of course Beauty and servant;
man was a plucky fellow, sure, to stay with him."

And having given the desired evidence in lazy little intervals of
speech, he took some Rhenish.

"Well--yes; nothing could be more conclusive, certainly," assented the
Baronet, resignedly convinced. "It was the best thing that could
happen under the unfortunate circumstances; so Lord Royallieu thinks, I
suppose. He allowed no one to wear mourning, and had his unhappy son's
portrait taken down and burned."

"How melodramatic!" reflected Leo Charteris. "Now what the deuce can
it hurt a dead man to have his portrait made into a bonfire? Old lord
always did hate Beauty, though. Rock does all the mourning; he's cut up
no end; never saw a fellow so knocked out of time. Vowed at first he'd
sell out, and go into the Austrian service; swore he couldn't stay in
the Household, but would get a command of some Heavies, and be changed
to India."

"Duke didn't like that--didn't want him shot; nobody else, you see, for
the title. By George! I wish you'd seen Rock the other day on the Heath;
little Pulteney came up to him."

"What Pulteney?--Jimmy, or the Earl?"

"Oh, the Earl! Jimmy would have known better. These new men never know
anything. 'You purchased that famous steeple-chaser of his from Mr.
Cecil's creditors, didn't you!' asks Pulteney. Rock just looks him over.
Such a look, by George! 'I received Forest King as my dead friend's last
gift.' Pulteney never takes the hint--not he. On he blunders: 'Because,
if you were inclined to part with him, I want a good new hunting strain,
with plenty of fencing power, and I'd take him for the stud at any
figure you liked.' I thought the Seraph would have knocked him down--I
did, upon my honor! He was red as this wine in a second with rage, and
then as white as a woman. 'You are quite right,' he says quietly, and
I swear each word cut like a bullet, 'you do want a new strain with
something like breeding in it, but--I hardly think you'll get it for
the three next generations. You must learn to know what it means first.'
Then away he lounges. By Jove! I don't think the Cotton-Earl will forget
this Cambridgeshire in a hurry, or