“No, wouldn’t do at all,” Mr. Scunthorpe agreed. “But better not go, ma’am! Not the thing for you. Delicate female—shabby neighbourhood! Take a message.”
“Nonsense! Do you think I have never been to the City? Only wait until I have fetched a bonnet, and a shawl! We may take a hackney, and be there before Lady Bridlington comes downstairs.”
“Yes, but—Fact is, ma’am, he ain’t at the Red Lion!” said Mr. Scunthorpe, much disturbed.
She had sprung up from her chair, but at this she paused. “Not? But how is this? Why has he left the inn?”
“Couldn’t pay his shot,” explained Mr. Scunthorpe apologetically. “Left his watch. Silly thing to do. Might have come in useful.”
“Oh!” she cried out, horror in her voice. “Is it as bad as that? ”
“Worse!” said Mr. Scunthorpe gloomily. “Got queered sporting his blunt on the table. Only hadn’t enough blunt. Took to signing vowels, and ran aground.”
“ Gaming! ” Arabella breathed, in a shocked voice.
“Faro,” said Mr. Scunthorpe. “Mind, no question of any Greeking transactions! No fuzzing, or handling the concave-suit! Not but what it makes it worse, because a fellow has to be dashed particular in all matters of play and pay, if he goes to the Nonesuch. All the go, I assure you: Corinthian club—best of good ton! They play devilish high there—above my touch!”
“Then it was not you who took him to such a place!”