“Left canine tooth in lower jaw knocked out, and lip torn in a fight,” cried Tom. “Enter that, please.”
“Lord Diphoos.”
“Oh, all right,” cried Tom, savagely. “Here, I say, you sir, get on and finish. This grows interesting.”
He glanced across to his sister, who was holding Tryphie’s hand, her head erect, lip curling, and a warm flush in her cheeks as she listened to this diary of her lover’s doings.
“That is the fift entry,” said Mr Hurkle, glancing from one to the other; and then, as a dead silence reigned, he went on—
“‘Tuesday, seventeent. Blank. C.M. did not go out,’—That is the sixt entry, my lady.
“‘Wednesday, eighteent. Blank. C.M. did not go out.’—That is the sevent entry, my lady.
“‘Thursday, ninetent. Watched at Duke Street. Found C.M. was out. Waited. C.M. returned by north of street and met Lord Barmouth.’”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed her ladyship.
“‘His lordship entered Duke Street from the south, after stopping some time to look in picture-dealer’s at full-length portrait of a goddess.’”