Ulysses wagged his tail. He was not only willing to do Mr. Beaumaris justice, but presently indicated his readiness to accompany him on whatever expedition he had in mind.
“It would be useless to suggest, I suppose, that you are occupying Clayton’s seat?” said Mr. Beaumaris, mounting into his tilbury.
Clayton, grinning, expressed himself as being agreeable to taking the little dog on his knee, but Mr. Beaumaris shook his head.
“No, I fear he would not like it. I shan’t need you,” he said, and drove off, remarking to his alert companion: “We are now faced with the wearing task of tracing down that foolish young man’s inarticulate friend, Felix Scunthorpe. I wonder whether, in the general medley, there is any bloodhound strain in you?”
He drew blank at Mr. Scunthorpe’s lodging, but on being informed that Mr. Scunthorpe had mentioned that he was going to Boodle’s, drove at once to St. James’s Street, and was so fortunate as to catch sight of his quarry, walking up the flagway: He reined in, and called imperatively: “Scunthorpe!”
Mr. Scunthorpe had naturally perceived who was driving a spanking chestnut between the shafts of the tilbury, but as he had no expectation of being recognized by the Nonpareil this summons surprised him very much. He was even a little doubtful, and said cautiously: “Me, sir?”
“Yes, you. Where is young Tallant?” He saw an expression of great wariness descend upon Mr. Scunthorpe’s face, and added impatiently: “Come, don’t be more of a fool than you can help! You don’t suppose I am going to hand him over to the tipstaffs, do you?”
“Well, he’s at the Cock,” disclosed Mr. Scunthorpe reluctantly. “That is to say,” he corrected himself, suddenly recalling his friend’s incognito, “he is, if you mean Mr. Anstey.”
“Have you any brothers?” demanded Mr. Beaumaris.
“No,” said Mr. Scunthorpe, blinking at him. “Only child.”