



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH

A Novel

By Robert Barr

Illustrated

New York: D. Appleton And Company

1908

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YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH




CHAPTER I--THE KING’S MOVE IN THE CITY

IT was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning that young Lord
Stranleigh of Wychwood, in a most leisurely fashion, descended the front
steps of his town house into the street. The young man was almost too
perfectly dressed. Every article of his costume, from his shiny hat to
the polished boots, was so exactly what it should he, that he ran
some danger of being regarded as a model for one of those beautiful
engravings of well-dressed mankind which decorate the shops of
Bond-Street tailors. He was evidently one who did no useful work in the
world, and as a practical person might remark, why should he, when his
income was more than thirty thousand pounds a year? The slightly bored
expression of his countenance, the languid droop of his eyelids, the
easy but indifferent grace of motion that distinguished him, might have
proclaimed to a keen observer that the young man had tested all
things, and found there was nothing worth getting excited about. He was
evidently a person without enthusiasm, for even the sweet perfection of
his attire might be attributed to the thought and care of his tailor,
rather than to any active meditation on his own part. Indeed, his
indolence of attitude made the very words “active” or “energetic” seem
superfluous in our language. His friends found it difficult, if not
impossible, to interest Lord Stranleigh in anything, even in a horse
race, or the fling of the dice, for he possessed so much more money
than he needed, that gain or loss failed to excite a passing flutter of
emotion. If he was equipped with brains, as some of his more intimate
friends darkly hinted, he had hitherto given no evidence of the fact.
Although well set up, he was not an athlete. He shot a little, hunted a
little, came to town during the season, went to the Continent when the
continental exodus took place, always doing the conventional thing, but
not doing it well enough or bad enough to excite comment. He was the
human embodiment of the sentiment: “There is nothing really worth
while.”

In marked contrast to him stood, undecided, a man of his own age, with
one foot on the lower stone step which led up to the front door of his
lordship’s town house. His clothes, of undistinguished cut, were worn so
carelessly that they almost gave the impression of being ready-made. His
flung-on, black slouch hat suggested Western America or Southern Africa.
His boots were coarse and clumsy.

But if the attire was uninspiring, the face merited, and usually
received, a second glance. It was smooth-shaven, massive and strong,
tanned to a slight mahogany tinge by a more eager sun than ever shines
on England. The eyes were deep, penetrating, determined, masterful.

Lord Stranleigh’s delicate upper lip supported a silken mustache
carefully tended; his eyes were languid and tired, capable of no such
gleam of intensity as was now turned upon him from the eyes of the
other.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but are you Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood?”

His lordship paused on the upper steps, and drawled the one word “Yes.”

“My name is Peter Mackeller, and the Honorable John Hazel gave me a
letter of introduction to you, saying I should probably catch you in at
this hour. It seems he underestimated your energy, for you are already
abroad.”

There was an undercurrent of resentment in the impatient tone Mackeller
had used. He was manifestly impressed unfavorably by this modern
representative of a very ancient family, but the purpose he had in view
caused him to curb his dislike, although he had not been tactful
enough to prevent a hint of it appearing in his words. If the other had
gathered any impression of that hint, he was too perfectly trained to
betray his knowledge, either in phrase or expression of countenance. The
opinion of his fellows was a matter of complete indifference to him. A
rather engaging smile stirred the silken mustache.

“Oh, Jack always underestimates my good qualities, so we won’t trouble
about his note of introduction. Besides, a man cannot read a letter in
the street, can he?”

“I see no reason against it,” replied the other sharply.

“Don’t you really? Well, I am going across to my club, and perhaps as we
walk along together, you will be good enough to say why you wish to see
me.”

Lord Stranleigh was about