“Let us say eleven. Does that suit you?”
“Perfectly; any hour,—eleven, twelve, one,—whenever your Lordship pleases.”
“Well, good-night, Twining, good-night.”
“Good-night, my Lord, good-night. What fun!” muttered he, slapping his legs as he stepped out to his lodgings.
It was not till he had smoked his fourth cigar, taking counsel from his tobacco, as was his wont, that the new Viscount returned to his hotel. It was then nigh morning, and the house was so buried in sleep that he knocked full half an hour before he gained admittance.
“There's a gentleman arrived, sir, who asked after you. He didn't give his name.”
“What is he like,—old, young, short, or tall?”
“Middle-aged, sir, and short, with red beard and moustaches. He drank tea with the lady upstairs, sir, and waited to see you till nigh two o'clock.”
“Oh, I know him,” muttered Beecher, and passed on. When he reached his dressing-room, he found the table covered with a mass of letters addressed to Lord Viscount Lackington, and scrawled over with postmarks; but a card, with the following few words, more strongly engaged his attention: “It's all right, you are the Viscount—C. D.”
A deep groan burst from Beecher as he dropped the card and sank heavily into a seat. A long, long time slipped over ere he could open the letters and examine their contents. They were almost all from lawyers and men of business, explanation of formalities to be gone through, legal details to be completed, with here and there respectful entreaties to be continued in this or that agency. A very bulky one was entirely occupied with a narrative of the menaced suit on the title, and a list of the papers which would be hereafter required for the defence. It was vexatious to be told of a rebellion ere he had yet seated himself on the throne; and so he tossed the ungracious document to the end of the room, his mood the very reverse of that he had so long pictured to himself it might be.