With such random reflections as these Mr. Lowther beguiled the silence of the drive to Richmond. During dinner and throughout the evening he watched his friend closely; but all the fascinations of Bohemia were powerless to arouse Francis Tredethlyn from the thoughtful mood. Indeed, the Bohemians had a charming faculty for enjoying themselves amongst themselves without any reference to the host and paymaster, who was generally looked at rather in the light of a bore and an intruder--the death’s head at the banquet. Some of Mr. Tredethlyn’s new friends had christened him the Necessary Evil; and to-night, while he sat moodily brooding over the story of his cousin, pretty lips made faces at the company over his shoulder; and one lovely Bohemian, more playful than the rest, amused herself and her acquaintances by filling the pockets of his dress-coat with the empty shells of the lobsters, and the corks of the champagne. For the rest, what did it matter in what dreary regions his mind wandered, so long as he was there to write a cheque for the bill? Only one pair of eyes looked at him with any show of interest; and those eyes watched him as the serpent watches the bird; with as deadly a purpose, with as quiet a gaze. But, watch him as closely as he would to-night, there was something in Francis Tredethlyn’s mind which Harcourt Lowther could not read quite as easily as a page in an open book, and as it was his habit to read most things relating to the Cornishman. “What does it matter?” thought Mr. Lowther, abandoning himself to reflection again during the homeward drive; “let him keep his secret from me if he likes, and I’ll use it for my own benefit when he plays against me. He is my dummy, and he plays _my_ game. When he leads a suit of his own choosing, I am ready on his right hand with a cluster of small trumps. Play as he will, he can scarcely throw me out. What does it matter _how_ the game is won, so long as one scores the odd trick?”