Mr Gisborne met those twinkling eyes and bowed slightly. “Very well, sir,” he said.
“You are—yes, positively you are—a prince of secretaries, Arnold,” said his lordship. “And you are quite right, of course. How do you contrive to be so acute?”
Mr Gisborne smiled. “There’s a handkerchief round your forearm, sir,” he pointed out.
The Earl drew the arm from behind his head and regarded it pensively. “That,” he said, “was a piece of sheer carelessness. I must be growing old.” With which he closed his eyes and relapsed into a state of agreeable coma.
Chapter Eighteen
Sir Roland Pommeroy, returning empty-handed from his mission, found Horatia and her brother playing piquet together in the saloon. For once Horatia’s mind was not wholly concentrated on her cards, for no sooner was Sir Richard ushered in than she threw down her hand and turned eagerly towards him. “Have you g-got it?”
“Here, are you going to play this game, or not?” said the Viscount, more single-minded than his sister.
“No, of c-course not. Sir Roland, did he give it to you?”
Sir Roland waited carefully until the door was shut behind the footman and coughed. “Must warn you, ma’am—greatest caution needed before the servants. Affair to be hushed up—won’t do if it gets about.”
“Never mind about that,” said the Viscount impatiently. “Never had a servant yet who did not know all my secrets. Have you got the brooch?”