[29]

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[30] glad, my boy. Would have missed you very much—good men are too scarce, as it is."

[30]

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.

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