"Owen still here in Dublin by all the saints!"
CHAPTER III.
AT DAGGERS' POINTS.
It was Roderic's intention to lead the other a jolly little dance before jumping upon him with both feet, so to speak.
In other words he pleased to play with the conceited beau pretty much as a cat might with a mouse that had fallen into her clutches.
Hence he observed Jerome's amazed expression with the air of a man who was puzzled.
"Still in Dublin—why not, my boy? This is about as comfortable a berth as one could find, and I shall only desert it when stern duty calls me across the big pond. Whatever possessed you with the idea that I had departed hence—why it was only late last night when I last saw you?"
Wellington was making heroic efforts to resume his ordinary cool appearance, but he had evidently been hard hit, and fluttered like a wounded pigeon, which was a rare thing with a man usually calm and sarcastic.
"By Jove! it must have been a bad dream, but, d'ye know my dear fellow, I could swear you came and told me you were off for Hamburg, Constantinople or——"
"Monte Carlo perhaps, since one place is about as likely as the other."
"Well, er, perhaps it was. Wretched dream at any rate. Must have been the Welsh rarebit I had about midnight—awful fond of toast and cheese, you know, especially good Roquefort. Glad to know it was only a dream, dused glad, my boy. Would have missed you very much—good men are too scarce, as it is."
Thus Jerome babbled on, his object being simply delay, in order to collect himself and grasp the situation.
At the same time possibly he hoped to pull the wool over the eyes of the man he addressed.
It was useless.
When Roderic mentioned Monte Carlo the schemer knew his game had been exposed through some blunder, and all he could hope to fight for was advantage of position when the assault came.
He therefore hurried up his reserves and proceeded to call all hands to repel boarders.
Owen had folded his arms and was coolly surveying him across the table—there was a curl to his mustached lip that told of fine scorn.
Some men can stand almost anything rather than to be made a mark for irony or disdain, and it was this more than anything else that brought Wellington furiously to the front.
"See here, Owen, all chicanery aside, how the devil do you happen to be here at the Shelbourne instead of on a yacht bound for Havre, and eventually to the gamester's Paradise?" he blurted out.
"A plain question and deserving an equally candid answer. To tell you the truth then, my dear fellow, I had decided objections to making such a hasty trip across to the Continent. Your preparations for my comfort were overwhelming, and while I appreciated all you did I was obliged to respectfully decline."
"Well, my own eyes tell me you are here, but I'll take my oath I saw one who looked enough like you to be your shadow sail out of Kingstown harbor at three this morning on board the steam yacht Galatea. And that was no hasheesh dream either, superinduced by Welsh rarebit or opium. Now, who the devil went to Havre?"
"A gentleman whose health needed the ocean voyage, and who believed he could enjoy the society of the gay set on board. I have no doubt he will be exceedingly grateful for all your trouble."
Jerome looked at first as though he could bite a nail with pleasure—Owen expected him to swear, but the other seldom gave way to such vulgar exhibitions of temper.
On the contrary he smiled, and his white teeth showing through his carefully adjusted mustache gave Roderic the impression of a grinning hyena.
Still, the application hardly fitted such a case, for Jerome was considered an extremely handsome and fascinating man, however much of a human wolf he might be back of the scenes.
"Owen, you have called the hand for the first round. It is on me, and devilish hard. I could ill afford the cold cash I spent to hire that boat. I sincerely trust your counterpart will choke upon the good victuals I put aboard or else make himself so beastly drunk upon the liquor that he will fall overboard in the bay of Biscay or somewhere along the French coast."
"Don't reproach me for doing just what you would have done had you been in my shoes, and the plot been revealed to you, Wellington."
The other brightened up a trifle.
"You may be sure I would—but evidently you received a pretty strong tip—who betrayed me?"
He spoke carelessly, but there was a devilish gleam in his blazing eyes that told the state of his feelings toward the unknown.
Owen would sooner have cut his right hand off than betray the source of his knowledge.
"I have means of acquiring information that are unequalled outside of Scotland Yard. For some time, Wellington, I had looked upon you as an agreeable acquaintance. That time has gone by. You have stripped the mask from your face, and I know you as a wolf preying upon society."
"Sir!"
"Oh! you needn't flare up and look ferocious. I say this to your teeth. If you desire the satisfaction one gentleman demands from another I am always at your service, whether it be with bare knuckles, a revolver or the sword. I believe I am equally at home with all, and will take great pleasure in puncturing your precious skin."
"Well, you are devilish frank, to say the least," declared Jerome, mastering his ugly mood, since he knew full well the disadvantage falling to the man who gave way to passion.
"I expect to be, since it is the only policy to use when dealing with such men as you. I might warn my cousin against your attentions, but it would be useless, since she has undoubtedly sized you up as an ordinary adventurer long before I dreamed of it. However, my dear fellow, one last word of warning before I quit your society. If you take it upon yourself to annoy Cleo—if she appeals to me for assistance I shall camp on your trail until I finally 'get' you, as they put it over in my country."
There was no boastful spirit in his manner, only a grim determination that carried weight.
Wellington, looking squarely into those calm orbs that held his own in a species of thralldom knew he had the fight of his life before him.
Perhaps he saw with prophetic vision, some dim inkling of his own downfall—it is a long road that has no turn—success had visited him many times in the past, but there was for him as for all adventurers, a dies irae and it might come through Roderic Owen.
"I'll consider myself warned, Owen, and if trouble comes my blood be upon my own head. The only remark I shall venture to make is, that as yet I have never failed in any serious undertaking which engaged my attention," he said, sneeringly.
"Indeed. Then let us hope you are not very serious about this affair."
"I have made a vow. By that I mean to win, or fall. Have you breakfasted, Owen?"
"Not yet. I shall order a chop and a cup of chocolate."
"You won't join me then?"
"Well, under the circumstances, as we are to be mortal enemies, I hardly think it would be wise. I have some of the Arab's feeling about breaking bread or eating salt with an enemy."
"I would give something to know who betrayed my little game."
"Don't worry about it—my means are such that in order to learn what I wish I am not compelled to make traitors of those you trust."
"And the man on the yacht?"
"Oh! Darby is all right—you can depend upon it he will enjoy himself to the limit.