"Oh, no," Peckover protested, pulling himself together and assuming the boldest face he could summon up. "It wasn't my fault you drank that doctored wine, which I intended for my own consumption." "Dare say not," Quorn returned uncompromisingly. "Admitting for the sake of argument that was an unfortunate mistake, how about you and your friend annexing my place and title?" Peckover's face showed bland surprise. "Me and my friend taking your place and title? What do you mean?" "Oh," replied Quorn with impatient sarcasm, "we are dense this evening. It may astonish you, Mr. Alias Gage, but I rather fancy Staplewick Park and Towers belong to Lord Quorn." "Who suggested they didn't?" asked Peckover wonderingly. "I'd like to see the man, that's all," retorted Quorn. "And," he resumed, "I'm rather under the impression that I'm Lord Quorn." "I dare say," was the prompt rejoinder. "But it doesn't follow you are that nobleman." "What?" he roared. "Don't make a noise," said Peckover, with a touch of dignity; "the servants aren't used to it." "I say I am Lord Quorn," the other repeated with less volume but more intensity. "And you know it." "But Lord Quorn says he's Lord Quorn," argued the wily Peckover with maddening plausibility. "That's all I know. I'm not the Heralds' College." "You're a pair of frauds," cried Quorn. "Naturally, if you're the rightful peer," was the bland reply. "But we don't know it, nor anybody else." "Don't they?" "Except yourself, I was going to say, and a lady and gentleman who have come all the way from Australia to stick to it--and you." The hit told. Quorn's manner visibly weakened. "What--you've had the nuisances up here--what is their infernal game?" he asked, darkly apprehensive. "Simple enough," replied Peckover, beginning to feel the courage he had hitherto simulated. "The fair Lalage's game is to be Lady Quorn, or to know the reason why. And she has brought over dear old Carnaby as an extra note of interrogation." "Oh! What persevering devils they are," Quorn observed uneasily. "And what do they say to your friend who calls himself Lord Quorn?" "Say?" Peckover's native smartness was quick to turn the situation to advantage. "Why, their idea is that one Lord Quorn's as good as another and failing one the other will do nicely." Quorn gave a long whistle. "Why, you don't mean to say that Lal Leo is going for your friend?" "She is, though, by George," was the blunt answer. "Only, of course, she hasn't got the hold on him she would have on you. And that's where Carnaby comes in." Quorn looked at him searchingly, but was fain to accept the statement. Besides which, it tallied with his idea of the Leonine methods. "Well, that's a queer go," he said, and then fell into a puzzled silence. Presently he burst out with a question, not unnatural under the circumstances. "Who the devil is the thief who has the cheek to call himself Lord Quorn?"