“I thank you, sir,” said Bashville, seating himself. It struck Lucian then, from a certain strung-up resolution in his visitor’s manner, that he had come on some business of his own, and not, as he had taken for granted, with a message from his mistress. “I have come, sir, on my own responsibility this morning. I hope you will excuse the liberty.” “Certainly. If I can do anything for you, Bashville, don’t be afraid to ask. But be as brief as you can. I am so busy that every second I give you will probably be subtracted from my night’s rest. Will ten minutes be enough?” “More than enough, sir, thank you. I only wish to ask one question. I own that I am stepping out of my place to ask it; but I’ll risk all that. Does Miss Carew know what the Mr. Cashel Byron is that she receives every Friday with her other friends?” “No doubt she does,” said Lucian, at once becoming cold in his manner, and looking severely at Bashville. “What business is that of yours?” “Do YOU know what he is, sir?” said Bashville, returning Lucian’s gaze steadily. Lucian changed countenance, and replaced a pen that had slipped from a rack on his desk. “He is not an acquaintance of mine,” he said. “I only know him as a friend of Lord Worthington’s.” “Sir,” said Bashville, with sudden vehemence, “he is no more to Lord Worthington than the racehorse his lordship bets on. _I_ might as well set up to be a friend of his lordship because I, after a manner of speaking, know him. Byron is in the ring, sir. A common prize-fighter!” Lucian, recalling what had passed at Mrs. Hoskyn’s, and Lord Worthington’s sporting habits, believed the assertion at once. But he made a faint effort to resist conviction. “Are you sure of this, Bashville?” he said. “Do you know that your statement is a very serious one?” “There is no doubt at all about it, sir. Go to any sporting public-house in London and ask who is the best-known fighting man of the day, and they’ll tell you, Cashel Byron. I know all about him, sir. Perhaps you have heard tell of Ned Skene, who was champion, belike, when you were at school.” “I believe I have heard the name.” “Just so, sir. Ned Skene picked up this Cashel Byron in the streets of Melbourne, where he was a common sailor-boy, and trained him for the ring. You may have seen his name in the papers, sir. The sporting ones are full of him; and he was mentioned in the Times a month ago.” “I never read articles on such subjects. I have hardly time to glance through the ones that concern me.” “That’s the way it is with everybody, sir. Miss Carew never thinks of reading the sporting intelligence in the papers; and so he passes himself off on her for her equal. He’s well known for his wish to be thought a gentleman, sir, I assure you.” “I have noticed his manner as being odd, certainly.”