There entered a few minutes later Rensley, in company with his friend Mr Markham. Mr Markham looked heated; Mr Rensley was scowling. The truth was he had been somewhat testy with his satellite, and there had been a slight altercation. Mr Rensley refused curtly an invitation to join a faro party, on the score of his being promised to Markham. The pair sat down to picquet at a table close to Mr Belfort’s.

It fell to Mr Markham to deal, while Rensley looked sourly round the room. His glance fell upon my Lord Barham, likewise engaged on picquet. He uttered a strong expletive beneath his breath, and glared angrily. My lord, catching sight of him, waved a white hand, which salutation Mr Rensley did not return. “Damn the fellow, he’s no more my cousin than you are!” he said, addressing Mr Markham.

Mr Markham was still feeling ruffled. Rensley was always quick of temper, and one bore outbursts of anger from a rich viscount. But if Rensley was going to lose his wealth and his title his friend Markham had no intention of bearing his ill-humour with complacency. “Gad, man, let be!” he said shortly. “You’ve said little else for the past hour. Do you take all five cards?”

Rensley sorted his hand rather sullenly, and took time over his discard. A well-known voice smote Mr Markham’s ears: “Don’t despair, Devereux! She may die of an apoplexy yet!”

Mr Markham looked sharply round, and found that Mr Merriot was seated close at hand. He bowed politely, but his brow was black as he faced Rensley again.

Rensley saw, and smiled disagreeably. “Ay, the young sprig from the country’s here, Gregory. Ecod, I believe the lad’s worsted you in some encounter! Eh! man? Now what did he do to you, I wonder?”

“That puppy!” Mr Markham flushed. “I could break him across my knee!”

“Well, why don’t you?” asked Rensley. “You talk a deal, the Lord knows!”

Markham laid down his cards. “Not to you for much longer, sir, I warn you!” he said.

“Oh, play to my lead, man, play to my lead! Gad, but you’ll admit you’d try the patience of a saint with your prating of having seen that — that impostor somewhere, and not knowing where! Why can’t you think?”

My Lord Barham rose from his table across the room, and stood for a moment talking to March. One or two men gathered around them, after a moment a dice-box was produced, and March cast the dice on the table. Heads were bent over it; there was a laugh, and a murmur of speech, and my Lord Barham swept up the dice.

Mr Markham chanced that moment to look up. He saw my lord shake back his ruffles, and with eyes growing gradually wider he saw him throw the dice with a curious flick of the wrist.

Mr Markham was in the act of dealing, but his hand with three cards in it stayed poised in mid-air, and he continued to stare across at my lord, his jaw slightly dropped.

“What’s to do now?” demanded Rensley. “Gad, have you remembered,” he added eagerly.

“That man — why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.”

It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. “So few people nowadays understand the art!” he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. “My cousin! I salute you!” he said.

Mr Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. “Damn it, don’t call me cousin!” he said loudly. “You’re no more than a cursed gamester!”

There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. “Oh!” he said. “Who told you that?”

Markham put down the pack of cards. “I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,” he said.

My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. “Then that must have been where I met you!” he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. “I thought your face familiar from the first.”

At the lansquenet table Sir Anthony gave a low laugh. “Faith, I begin to have a liking for the old gentleman!” he said.

“You admit it, do you?” Mr Rensley felt his words fall lamely upon expectant ears.

“Admit what?” said my lord, puzzled.

“Why — damme, that you’ve kept a common gaming-house!”

My lord’s hand was raised. “No!” he said emphatically, and a sigh went round the room. His next words dispelled relief. “Never in all my life have I kept anything that was common! You insult me by the suggestion.”

There was a low ripple of laughter. People were gathering about that corner of the room, eager to hear what might be the issue.

“No use to play with words, fellow. That won’t serve,” Rensley cried angrily. “Have you kept a gaming-house?”

The old gentleman took snuff. “I have kept at least a dozen, my dear Rensley,” he said, with perfect composure. He looked again towards Mr Markham. “I am not entirely satisfied,” he mused. “Are you sure you never had lessons in fencing from me, sir?”

There was a gasp. All play was at an end in the card-room. My Lord March burst out laughing. “Gad, Barham, have you been a fencing-master, too?” he exclaimed.

The old gentleman shut his gold snuff-box with a snap. “My dear March,” he said haughtily, “there is nothing I have not been!” He looked again at Mr Markham. “Are you quite sure I did not give you lessons in fencing? Let me think a moment! Yes, I had an establishment in Rome once, and — yes, yes, another in Turin!”

“It’s quite possible, no doubt,” sneered Mr Markham. “I don’t trouble to remember all my fencing instructors.”

“Then of a certainty you are not a pupil of mine,” said my lord. “Me you could never forget. For those whom I taught are masters of fence. It goes without saying. I am incomparable. I have no equal in the art!”

Again March broke in. “I’d give something to hear the story of your life, Barham!” he said, hugely entertained.

Rensley flushed. “His name’s not Barham!” he said furiously. “He’s the impostor I always said he was!”

March froze to instant haughtiness. “He has at least the advantage of you in the matter of good manners, Rensley,” he said.

Public opinion veered round in favour of the old gentleman.

“It’s very, very deplorable,” Mr Devereux said, with a mournful shake of the head. “But he might be all these damned bourgeois things and still remain Tremaine of Barham.”

“You’re pleased to give him countenance, my lord, but you shall see him exposed!” Rensley snapped.

“But expose me!” cried the old gentleman, and threw wide his arms. “I am here to answer you. Who then am I?”

“Good God, am I to know who you are?” exclaimed Rensley. “But you are not Tremaine! Why, you couldn’t tell me a thing about the family that’s not known to the whole world!”

“Ay, that’s a challenge. He must answer that!” whispered Sir Raymond Orton.

“I can at least tell you, cousin, that a portrait of me hangs in the pink salon at Barham. A very damnable likeness of me as a child, taken with my late lamented brother,” said my lord softly.

“A hit!” Mr Belfort confided to Prudence. “That’s a hit!”

She sat in an attitude of negligent attention, an arm flung over the back of the chair, and her calm face inscrutable. She nodded, and was conscious of Fanshawe’s eyes upon her.

Rensley banged his fist down on the table. “It’s not the pink salon!” he declared. “There is no pink salon!”

Mr Belfort was of the opinion that this was a bad check.

“In my day,” said his lordship, undisturbed, “it was pink.”

“Faugh, what do you know of it? You’re trying to brazen it out with a bare-faced lie!”

Mr Fontenoy spoke grudgingly. “There was a pink salon,” he said. “Lady Barham used it.”

My lord swept round to face him. “Ah, you remember then?” he said eagerly. “A pink salon in the west wing! There was an oriole window, and my mother’s broidery table set there!” He became rapt in reminiscences.

This produced a sensation. Mr Belfort thought the old gentleman scored a decided hit there.

Rensley was discomfited for a moment, but recovered.

“Oh, you’ve been in the house in your youth! That’s all there is to that. You were a groom there, I dare swear, and you got into the house!”

Mr Belfort wagged a solemn head. “Ay, that’s a possibility, y’know.”

My lord’s eyes glinted. Very sweet was his voice, dangerously sweet. “It’s more than you can claim to have done, my dear cousin,” he said gently. “I’ll swear you never set foot in it till my brother died!”

Rensley’s jaw dropped; he grew purple in the face. “Damn your impudence!” he spluttered.

Lord March interposed. “Enough of that. Did you set foot in it, Rensley?”

The old gentleman was indignant. “Certainly he did not!” he said, before Rensley could reply. “There was never a Rensley dared show his face on our land! What had we to do with them?” Almost he snorted.

His daughter’s eyes widened a little; Mr Belfort sniggered.

Rensley bit back a hot answer. Came a look of cunning into his face. “So you never met me when we were boys, my Lord Barham?” he said.