Phineas scratched his poll, and grinned and was silent.
“You are just an intolerable ass,” cried his master. He danced in his excitement. His dignity was all gone; he was simply a man in a shirt. “Fetch master secretary!” he cried. “Fetch master comptroller! Rouse the household, and warn the porter at the gate! Send every one in to me, here and at once.”
The valet hesitated.
“Do you hear?” shouted Sir Richard. “Why do you wait?”
“It doesn’t come down to your knees, my lord,” said Phineas.
The Treasurer leaped to a press and tore out a robe. “Go!” he screamed over his shoulder.
In a minute they all came hurrying in—comptroller, secretary, clerks, grooms, and underlings—in dress or in undress, a motley crew, as the occasion had found them.
“What is it, my lord?” asked the first, in an astonished voice. He was a tall, pallid man, so inured to method and routine that a rat behind the wainscot was enough to throw him into a flutter.
“Master Hugh,” cried the Treasurer—“Master Hugh! I found that in my pocket when I came to strip—a thing that I had never put there, or put unconsciously. What do you make of it, my friend? What does it import?”
They all gathered round the comptroller to read the billet, and, having examined it, fell apart with grave, inquiring faces.