“It is.”
“And you would be after seeing him immediately?”
“Rightly conjectured, my sagacious friend.”
“Fait then, your honour, my master’s in bed with a terrible fit of the megrims.”
“Then you will favour me by giving this card to your master, and expressing my sorrow at his indisposition.”
Upon this the orange-coloured lacquey, very quietly reading the address on the card, and spelling letter by letter in an audible mutter, rejoined,
“C—o—u (cou) n—t (unt) Count, D—e—v. Och, by my shoul, and it’s Count Devereux after all I’m thinking?”
“You think with equal profundity and truth.”
“You may well say that, your honour. Stip in a bit: I’ll tell my master; it is himself that will see you in a twinkling!”
“But you forget that your master is ill?” said I.