Had We Never Loved by Patricia Veryan Page B

a trifle? For Templeby, I mean.”
    â€œI’d be grateful,” called Glendenning over his shoulder. “If you find him before I do, keep an eye on him for me, would you?”
    Morris waved, and the viscount walked briskly to the stables.
    Deep in thought, Falcon and Morris started towards the house, Apollo escorting them, and growling sporadically at Morris’ heels.
    â€œThe deuce!” said Morris.
    Falcon muttered, “I wish to heaven I knew who it was.”
    â€œEh? Oh—’tis another name for the Devil. I’d’ve thought you would know that.”
    â€œNot him, you clod! I mean I wish I knew who this damnable Squire is.”
    â€œWhy should you be concerned? You hate England. What do you care if a lunatic threatens her?”
    â€œI believe one may find a nation absurd, without hating it. And in case it has slipped your mind, Morris, I’ve already been dragged into this ugly business.”
    Morris frowned, and as they walked on together, stared at the ground in silence.
    This atypical behavior wore at Falcon. “I hear rusty wheels turning,” he murmured. “You must be thinking. Honour me by sharing your brilliant conclusions.”
    â€œAll right,” said Morris, looking up. “I think we should endeavour to find out who are the members of this League of Jewelled Men. And what the devil they’re about.”
    Falcon paused to clap his hands. “Bravo! And—a simple question, forgive me it. Have you the least notion where we should commence this masterly scheme?”
    â€œBut of course,” said Morris grandly. “In Windsor. You really must make a push to—just now and again—use that pumpkin on the end of your neck, poor fellow!”

CHAPTER III
    Surrey was green and neat and lovely, as ever. The viscount reached Mimosa Lodge in late afternoon, and was received with courtesy by Lord Kadenworthy’s aunt. Her nephew, she said, was down at the races and would likely not reach home until dark—if at all. “Hector,” sighed the sweet-faced elderly lady, “so often is caught up in all the talk of horses and jockeys and weight and stewards that it is sometimes the wee hours of the morning before they are done, and then he stays with whomever he chances to be. This new business of a race meeting here, has properly caught the public fancy. If you would care to go in search of him you will see for yourself.”
    Glendenning had a soft spot for gentle old ladies, and having gratefully accepted a substantial tea, at which his hostess seemed equally grateful for his company, he did go in search of Kadenworthy, and he did see for himself. For the second time in as many days, he walked Flame through a noisy crowd. A different crowd this, in which the elegant and distinguished rubbed shoulders with dashing young Bucks and Corinthians, and were in turn jostled by humbler folk. It was a crowd in which predators roved, their shrewd eyes searching out the easy marks, and many a man carried a small pistol in his belt or in his pocket. Another race was to be run before sunset, and the air rang with the shouts of wagers offered and taken. This was to be an Owners to Ride race, and excitement was high.
    Catching sight of Kadenworthy, astride a rangy-looking black, Glendenning’s attempts to win through to him were unavailing, and he was obliged to dismount. A sudden disturbance arose near at hand, and he became part of a surging, neck-craning crowd. A dark-haired youth was struggling in the grip of a man dressed in a simple but well-cut green habit. Glendenning had an impression of a blandly smiling pink and white face, of hooded grey eyes, full lips, and a soft yet oddly resonant voice.
    â€œYou are a thieving gypsy, and will be dealt with as such. Now—put it down. At once.”
    The voice was not raised, the man showed no sign of ungovernable rage or violence, but the youth cried a desperate, “I did not