"I suppose he was the butler?" I said when we had skirted the shallow drive, avoiding a couple of hansoms that stood there with the cabmen snug inside.
"What! The old fogey? Not he!" cried Delavoye as we reached the road. "I say, don't those hansoms tell us all about his pals!"
"But who was he?"
"The man himself."
"Not Sir Christopher Stainsby?"
"I'm afraid so—the old sinner!"
"But you said he was an old saint?"
"So I thought he was; my lord warden of the Nonconformist conscience, I always heard."
"Then how do you account for it?"
"I can't. I haven't thought about it. Wait a bit!"