Watkins panted up to us quite out of breath. He carried a dwindling candle in one hand, and his usually tidy garments were coated with dust.
"Must—apologize—ludship—appearance—fell—stairs," he began.
"Easy, easy," said Hugh comfortingly, and fell to brushing him off. "If it's bad news, why, it's bad news, Watty. If it's good news, it can wait."
"It was a lady, your ludship!"
We all laughed.
"A lady!" repeated Hugh. "Bless my soul, Watty, are you gettin' dissolute in your old age?"
"She 'ad nothing to do with me, your ludship," remonstrated the valet indignantly. "Leastwise, I should say, she 'ad no more to do with me than make a mock of me and the pistol you gave me."
"How's that?"
"Took it away from me, she did, your ludship." Watkins's voice quivered with wrath. "And tripped me on me back. Yes, and laughed at me!"
"A lady, you said?" demanded Hugh incredulously.