"Haredale!" said he thoughtfully. "Haredale?" and passed the paper to
me whereon I read these words, blotched with water, yet still legible:
You are unreasonable, but this is feminine.
You anger me, but this is natural.
You weary me--and this is fatal.
Adieu,
HAREDALE.
"Haredale!" said I.
"Haredale?" sighed my uncle. "The name is unfamiliar, I know none of
the name in London. Do you, Peregrine?"
"No, sir!" I answered. "No--and yet--it seems as if--yes, I have heard
it, Uncle, but not in London. I heard it mentioned two years ago--in a
wood. It was spoken by a scoundrel who named himself Haredale though
Lord Wyvelstoke addressed him as--Devereux!"
"Devereux!" said my uncle in so strange a tone that I lifted my gaze
from the scrawled name and saw that he had removed his hat again and
was staring at me with an expression as strange as his voice, his eyes
fixed and intent as though they stared at things I could not see, brow
wrinkled, nostrils expanded, chin more aggressive than usual.
"Devereux! Nephew, you--are sure it was--Devereux?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Hum!" said my uncle, putting on his hat. "I'll trouble you for that
scrap of paper, Nephew. Thanks! Now let us go on. Your headache is
better, I hope?"
"Much better, sir. But pray take my coat, you are shivering."
"Thank you, no--there is nothing like the early morning, it fills one
with a zest of life, the _joie de vivre_--though I will admit I
am seldom abroad at this hour.
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