"Yes, the 'Spotted Cow' should do very well; especially as Clemency--"
"Talking about the horses, Bev," said the Viscount, sitting up in
bed and speaking rather hurriedly, "I protest, since the rascally
attempt on 'Moonraker' last night, I've been on pins and needles,
positively,--nerve quite gone, y'know, Bev. If 'Moonraker' didn't
happen to be a horse, he'd be a mare,--of course he would,--but I
mean a nightmare. I've thought of him all day and dreamed of him all
night, oh, most cursed, y'know! Just ring for my fellow, will you,
Bev?--I'll get up, and we'll go round to the stables together."
"Quite unnecessary, Dick."
"Eh? Why?"
"Because I have just left there."
"Are the horses all right, Bev?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Ah!" sighed the Viscount, falling back among his pillows, "and
everything is quite quiet, eh?"
"Very quiet,--now, Dick."
"Eh?" cried the Viscount, coming erect again, "Bev, what d' you mean?"
"I mean that three men broke in again to-night--"
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed the Viscount, beginning to scramble out of bed.
"But we drove them off before they had done--what they came for."
"Did you, Bev,--did you? ah,--but didn't you catch any of 'em?"
"No; but my horse did."
"Your horse? Oh, Beverley,--d'you mean he--"
"Killed him, Dick!"
Once more the Viscount sank back among his pillows and stared up at
the ceiling a while ere he spoke again-"By the Lord, Bev," said he, at last, "the stable-boys might well
call him 'The Terror'!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "he has earned his name, Dick."
"And the man was--dead, you say?"
"Hideously dead, Dick,--and in his pocket we found this!" and
Barnabas produced a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and put it
into the Viscount's reluctant hand. "Look at it, Dick, and tell me
what it is."
"Why, Bev,--deuce take me, it's a plan of our stables! And they've
got it right, too! Here's 'Moonraker's' stall marked out as pat as
you please, and 'The Terror's,' but they've got his name wrong--"
"My horse had no name, Dick."
"But there's something written here."
"Yes, look at it carefully, Dick."
"Well, here's an H, and an E, and--looks like 'Hera,' Bev!"
"Yes, but it isn't. Look at that last letter again, Dick!"
"Why, I believe--by God, Bev,--it's an E!"
"Yes,--an E, Dick."
"'Here'!" said the Viscount, staring at the paper; "why, then--why,
Bev,--it was--your horse they were after!"
"My horse,--yes, Dick."
"But he's a rank outsider--he isn't even in the betting! In heaven's
name, why should any one--"
"Look on the other side of the paper, Dick."
Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and
thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and
from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this: RONALD BARRYMAINE ESQUIRE.