Master Mittachip's voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin: there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man's whole personality.
Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron.
"Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low, somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of—er—the parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed."
"Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently.
"The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship's cloak flew open."
He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing interest in Sir Humphrey's face.
"Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand."
"Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly.
"A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of..."
"Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?"