He drew Grigson in from the vestibule and, unobserved in the crush, down the corridor to the darkness of the card-room where Peggy still sat disconsolate in her far-off corner.
She, for the moment, is even unconscious that any one has entered until the voices arrest her attention.
“By Gad!” Sir Percy cries in a low tone, falling into a seat and clapping his brow. “Up in London! The woman, vowing Sir Robin had crossed your entrance, inquiring for Her Ladyship! Your meeting, not Sir Robin, but an ill-conditioned little popinjay with squint eyes and of the height of the dwarf that waits upon my Lady Brookwood?”
“Aye, Sir Percy,” returns Grigson. “No more like Sir Robin, which, Sir, begging your honor’s parding, is a very pretty young nobleman, with a good eye and a proper height.”
Sir Percy nods.
“Then,” speaking as if to himself and motioning the man away, “since she’s up in town without her parents’ knowledge and with a cock-and-bull story stuck into her Abigail’s mouth, it must be she’s eloped with the scoundrel out of Kent!”
Grigson going, ventures to ask: “Any more h’orders, Sir Percy? Will I cover the town, all the inns and taverns, Sir?”
The young man shakes his head and the servant bows himself away.
