As for the Marquis, finding himself with time on his hands, he strolled round to Half Moon Street to visit the most congenial of his relatives.
Although it was past noon, he found this worthy still attired in a dressing-gown, and without his wig. The remains of breakfast stood upon the table, but my Lord Rupert Alastair seemed to have finished this repast, and was smoking a long pipe, and reading his letters. He looked up as the door opened, and made a grab at his wig, which lay conveniently on the sofa beside him, but when he saw his nephew he relaxed again.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Here, what the devil do you make of this?” He tossed over the sheet of paper he had been perusing, and tore open another of his letters.
Vidal laid down his hat and cane and came to the fire, running his eye over the note he held. He grinned. “Ain’t it plain enough, O my uncle? Mr. Tremlowe would be gratified by the payment of his bill. Who the devil’s Mr. Tremlowe?”
“Damned barber,” growled Lord Rupert. “What’s he say I owe him?”
The Marquis read out a startling total.
“Pack of lies,” said Lord Rupert. “Never saw so much money all at once in all my life. Damme, what have I had from him? Nothing at all! A couple of wigs (a Crutch and a She-dragon, and I never wore the Crutch) and maybe a bottle of Pomatum. Blister it, does the fellow think I’m going to pay him?”
The question was purely rhetorical, but the Marquis said: “How long has he known you, Rupert?”
“Lord, all my life, curse his impudence!”
“Then I don’t suppose he does,” said Vidal calmly.