“Go on, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship, patting the carpet with her boot, while his lordship rubbed his leg.
“‘Long dinner of many courses. Several kinds of wine, sodas, brandies, and cigars. Gentlemen returned to chambers in Duke Street, smoked cigars till ten; then to Barker’s.’”
“Let me see, Lord Barmouth, you said you were unwell last evening?”
“And I was not there,” cried Tom.
“That, my lady—hem!” said Mr Hurkle, undulating and threatening to draw himself out—“carries us up to midnight.”
“Yes—yes—yes,” cried his lordship, rising in great excitement; “and—and—and it’s, damme, it’s too much. Tom, Tom, my son, if you don’t kick that fellow out of the house, damme, I will, for it’s all a piece of—of confounded humbug. I won’t have it—I didn’t order this to be done—it’s—it’s—a confounded, damme, it’s a cruel insult to me and my family, and I won’t—I won’t—Tom, my boy, send that fellow away, or I shall—damme, I shall kill him.”
“Yes, yes, go now,” moaned her ladyship. “I will send to you, Mr Hurkle.”
The private inquirer bowed very low, took up his hat and gloves, and, replacing his pocket-book without unbuttoning himself, backed out of the room, as Tom stood with his hands in his pockets, his little waxed moustache sticking out in two sharp points, and grinding his teeth, while poor Lord Barmouth limped about the room trembling with excitement.
“Oh!” moaned her ladyship. “My salts—my drops, Tryphie; this will be the death of me.”
“Serve you right,” said Tom, savagely. “You brought it on yourself.”