PAGE 8
The Knight Errant
by
“Oh, no. I sketch a little, but—-“
“That’ll do. You are not an artist, but you sketch. Then you won’t be quite stranded. It’s very quiet, you know. There’s no society. Only the miller and his wife, and now and then the landlord–an out-at-elbows loafer who drifts about town and, very occasionally, plays knight errant to ladies in distress. There isn’t even a curate. Can you possibly endure it?”
She raised her head and laughed–a sweet, spontaneous laugh, inexpressibly gay.
“Oh, you are good–just good! It’s the only word that describes you. I always felt you were. I didn’t know you were a landed proprietor, though.”
“In a very small way,” he assured her.
“How nice!” she said eagerly. “Yes, I’ll go. I shall love it. But”–her face falling–“what of you? Shall you stay in town?”
“And face the music,” said the Poor Relation, with his most benign smile. “That is my intention. Don’t pity me! I shall enjoy it.”
“Is it possible?” Again she looked doubtful.
“Of course it’s possible. I enjoy a good row now and then. It keeps me in condition. I’ll come down and see you some day, and tell you all about it.” He glanced at his watch. “I think we ought to be moving. We will discuss arrangements as we go. I must send a wire to Mrs. Perkiss, and tell her you will go down by the seven-thirty. I will see you into the train at this end, and they will meet you at the other with the cart. It’s three miles from the railway.”
As they passed out together, he added meditatively, “I think you’ll like the old mill, Chirpy. It’s thatched.”
“I’m sure I shall,” she answered earnestly.
V
THE KNIGHT ERRANT TAKES THE FIELD
Rivington returned to his rooms that night, after dining at a restaurant, with a pleasing sense of having accomplished something that had been well worth the doing. He chuckled to himself a little as he walked. It was a decidedly humorous situation.
He was met at the top of the stairs by his servant, a sharp-faced lad of fifteen whom he had picked out of the dock of a police-court some months before, and who was devoted to him in consequence.
“There’s a gentleman waitin’ for you sir; wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer; been ‘ere best part of an hour. Name of Sin, sir. Looks like a foreigner.”
“Eh?” The blue eyes widened for a moment, then smiled approbation. “Very appropriate,” murmured Rivington. “All right, Tommy; I know the gentleman.”
He was still smiling as he entered his room.
A slim, dark man turned swiftly from its farther end to meet him. He had obviously been prowling up and down.
“Mr. Rivington?” he said interrogatively.
Rivington bowed.
“Mr. Dinghra Singh?” he returned.
“Have you seen me before?”
“At a distance–several times.”
“Ah!” The Indian drew himself up with a certain arrogance, but his narrow black moustache did not hide the fact that his lips were twitching with excitement. His dark eyes shone like the eyes of a beast, green and ominous. “But we have never spoken. I thought not. Now, Mr. Rivington, will you permit me to come at once to business?”
He spoke without a trace of foreign accent. He stood in the middle of the room, facing Rivington, in a commanding attitude.
Rivington took a seat on the edge of the table. He was still faintly smiling.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?”
But Dinghra preferred to stand.
“I am presuming that you are the Mr. Cecil Mordaunt Rivington whose engagement to Miss Ernestine Cardwell was announced in this morning’s paper,” he said, speaking quickly but very distinctly.
“The same,” said Rivington. He added with a shrug of the shoulders, “A somewhat high-sounding name for such a humble citizen as myself, but it was not of my own choosing.”
Dinghra ignored the remark. He was very plainly in no mood for trivialities.
“And the engagement really exists?” he questioned.
The Englishman’s brows went up.
“Of course it exists.”
“Ah!” It was like a snarl. The white teeth gleamed for a moment. “I had no idea,” Dinghra said, still with the same feverish rapidity, “that I had a rival.”