The Masqueraders

Against such smooth-spoken politeness Mr Markham found it difficult to proceed. He felt somewhat at a disadvantage, but comforted himself with the thought that it was my lord who should feel at a disadvantage in a very few moments. He plunged abruptly into the subject of his errand. ‘As to this claim of yours, sir, that you are Tremaine of Barham, I don’t believe in it, but I am taking no interest in it now.’

‘That is very wise of you,’ my lord approved. ‘You must allow me to compliment you.’

Mr Markham ignored this. ‘For all I care, you may ape the part of Barham to your heart’s content. It’s nothing to me.’

‘Positively you overwhelm me!’ my lord said. ‘You oppress me with kindness, sir. And you come, in fact, to set my mind at rest! Believe me all gratitude.’

‘I don’t come for that purpose at all,’ said Mr Markham, annoyed. ‘I come for a purpose, for which you may not be so damned grateful.’

‘Impossible!’ My lord shook his head. ‘The mere felicity of seeing you here in my rooms must fill me with gratitude.’

Mr Markham broke in on this without ceremony. ‘Barham you may be, but there is one thing you have been which is certain!’ He paused to let this sink in.

My lord did not seem to be greatly impressed. ‘Oh, a number of things!’ he assured his guest. ‘Of course, there are a number of things I have not been, too. They have never fallen in my way, which is the reason, you see. But continue! Pray continue!’

‘I will, my lord. You may not find it so palatable as you imagine. You have been – you may be still, for aught I know – a cursed Jacobite!’

My lord’s expression of polite interest underwent no change. ‘But you should tell this to my cousin Rensley,’ he pointed out.

‘You may be thankful I don’t, sir. It’s nothing to me: my information goes to the high

est bidder. If you haggle, my lord, Rensley shall have it. But I don’t think you will haggle.’

‘I’m sure I shan’t,’ my lord answered. ‘I am not a tradesman.’

‘You’re a damned Jack-of-all-trades, in my opinion!’ said Markham frankly. ‘You assume a mighty lofty tone, to be sure –’

‘No, no, it comes quite naturally,’ my lord interpolated sweetly. ‘I assume nothing; I am a positive child of nature, my dear sir. But you were saying?’

‘Ay, it doesn’t interest you at all, does it?’ Mr Markham achieved a sneer.

My lord was apologetic. ‘Well, not just at the moment, my dear friend of old days. But presently I feel you will arrive at a climax which will astound me. I am all expectation.’

‘It may well appal you, my lord. I have here’ – he laid his hand on the breast of his coat significantly – ‘something that spells ruin for you.’

‘What, in your heart?’ My lord was puzzled.

‘No, sir! In my pocket!’ snapped Markham.

‘Oh, I see! An inner pocket! A very cunning contrivance, sir: I must have one made for myself. What did you tell me you had in it?’

‘I have a certain paper, sir – a letter writ to my Lord George Murray: writ by a man who called himself – Colney!’

‘Good Gad, sir!’ said my lord placidly. ‘But you don’t drink! You find my claret insipid, I fear. Let me send for some canary. Or do you prefer ale in the morning? My man shall procure you some on the instant. You have but to say the word.’

‘You, sir, are that man!’ declared Mr Markham in a ringing voice.

My lord jumped and blinked. ‘I am anything in the world you please,’ he assured Mr Markham. ‘But don’t, I implore you, give me another such start!’

Mr Markham put a hand to his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. This he spread before my lord’s eyes, keeping it well out of reach.

My lord looked at it and nodded. ‘Very interesting,’ he said.

‘Very dangerous, my Lord of Barham!’

‘Then I should take care of it,’ advised my lord. ‘I do wish you would drink. I feel you detect something amiss with the claret which has escaped my palate.’

‘To hell with the claret! What will you give for this document, my lord? What’s it worth, eh? A man’s life?’