The tablecloth of fine linen was
patched and mended--here and there still in holes. Some of the dishes were
of silver and others of kitchen china. There were knives and forks
beautifully shaped and fashioned, mingled with the horn-handled ware of the
kitchen; silver plate and common pewter side by side; priceless glass and
common tumblers; fragments of beautiful china and here and there white
delf, borrowed from a neighbouring farm. The fare was simple but plentiful;
the only drink whisky and some ancient Marsala, in dust-covered bottles,
produced by Timothy with great pride and served with his own hand. The roar
which had greeted the first drinking of Sir Denis' health had scarcely died
away when Michael Dilwyn led the way to the final sensation.
"Denis, my boy," he said, "there's a trifle of mystery about you yet. Will
you tell me then, why, when I spoke to you at the Savoy Restaurant the
other night, you denied your own identity? Told me your name was Thew, or
something like it, and I your father's oldest friend, and your own, too!"
A sudden flood of recollection unlocked some of the fears in Denis
Cathley's breast.
"I have not used the name of Cathley for many years," he said. "Was it
likely that I should own to it there, in the heart of London, with a price
upon my head, and half a dozen people within earshot? I came back to
England at the risk of my life, on a special errand.
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