Ripton said no more, but thought.
The cabman pulled up at a Club. A gentleman, in whom Ripton recognized the Hon. Peter Brayder, was just then swinging a leg over his horse, with one foot in the stirrup. Hearing his name called, the Hon. Peter turned about, and stretched an affable hand.
“Is Mountfalcon in town?” said Richard taking the horse’s reins instead of the gentlemanly hand. His voice and aspect were quite friendly.
“Mount?” Brayder replied, curiously watching the action; “yes. He’s off this evening.”
“He is in town?” Richard released his horse. “I want to see him. Where is he?”
The young man looked pleasant: that which might have aroused Brayder’s suspicions was an old affair in parasitical register by this time. “Want to see him? What about?” he said carelessly, and gave the address.
“By the way,” he sang out, “we thought of putting your name down, Feverel.” He indicated the lofty structure. “What do you say?”
Richard nodded back at him, crying, “Hurry.” Brayder returned the nod, and those who promenaded the district soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping of his well-earned horse.
“What do you want to see Lord Mountfalcon for, Richard?” said Ripton.
“I just want to see him,” Richard replied.