The Amateur Gentleman

But now upon this tense silence came the soft, smooth tones of

Mr. Chichester: "Pray, Mr. Beverley, may I speak a word with you--in private?"

"If the company will excuse us," Barnabas replied; whereupon

Mr. Chichester rose and led the way into the adjoining room,

and, closing the door, took a folded letter from his pocket.

"Sir," said he, "I would remind you that the last time we met,

you warned me,--indeed you have a weakness for warning people, it

seems,--you also threatened me that unless I agreed to--certain

conditions, you would dispossess me of my inheritance--"

"And I repeat it," said Barnabas.

"Oh, sir, save your breath and listen," smiled Mr. Chichester,

"for let me tell you, threats beget threats, and warnings, warnings!

Here is one, which I think--yes, which I venture to think you will

heed!" So saying, he unfolded the letter and laid it upon the table.

Barnabas glanced at it, hesitated, then stooping, read as follows: DEAR LADY CLEONE,--I write this to warn you that the person calling

himself Mr. Beverley, and posing as a gentleman of wealth and

breeding, is, in reality, nothing better than a rich vulgarian, one

Barnabas Barty, son of a country inn-keeper. The truth of which

shall be proved to your complete satisfaction whenever you will, by: Yours always humbly to command, WILFRED CHICHESTER.

Now when he had finished reading, Barnabas sank down into a chair,

and, leaning his elbows upon the table, hid his face between his

hands; seeing which, Mr. Chichester laughed softly, and taking up

the letter, turned to the door. "Sir," said he, "as I mentioned

before, threats beget threats. Now,--you move, and I move. I tell you,

if you presume to interfere with me again in any way,--or with my

future plans in any way, then, in that same hour, Cleone shall know

you for the impudent impostor you are!" So Mr. Chichcster laughed

again, and laid his hand upon the latch of the door. But Barnabas

sat rigid, and did not move or lift his heavy head even when the

door opened and closed, and he knew he was alone.

Very still lie sat there, crouched above the table, his face hidden

in his hands, until he was roused by a cough, the most perfectly

discreet and gentleman-like cough in the world, such a cough, indeed,

as only a born waiter could emit.

"Sir," inquired the waiter, his napkin in a greater flutter than ever,

as Barnabas looked up, "sir,--is there hanythink you're wanting, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, heavily, "you can--give me--my hat!"