“To Bow Street — with the compliments of Mr. Fox.”
“No, damme, I don’t take the credit for it, Dominic. Compliments of the Marquis of Vidal, my man.”
The lackey swallowed something in his throat, and said with a palpable effort: “It shall be attended to, sir.”
Mr. Fox looked at the Marquis. “I don’t see what else we can do, Dominic, do you?”
“We seem to have been put to a vast deal of inconvenience already,” replied the Marquis, dusting his sleeve with a very fine handkerchief. “I do not propose to bother my head further in the matter.”
“Then we may as well go upstairs,” said Mr. Fox.
“I await your pleasure, my dear Charles,” returned his lordship, and began leisurely to mount the shallow stairs.
Mr. Fox fell in beside him, drawing an elegant brisé fan from his pocket. He opened it carefully, and held it for his friend to see. “Vernis Martin,” he said.
His lordship glanced casually down at it. “Very pretty,” he replied. “Chassereau, I suppose.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Fox said, waving it gently to and fro. “Subject, Télémaque, on ivory.”