“That’s mighty interesting,” he said. “We will step upstairs to be quite sure that his lordship has not come in unbeknown. In with you, Pel!”
The porter found himself driven firmly backwards, and raised a shout for help. A burly individual in a frieze greatcoat and a dirty neck-cloth, who was sitting on a chair in the narrow hall, looked on grinning but offered no assistance. The butler came puffing up the stairs, but paused when he saw the company. He bowed to the Viscount, and said severely: “His lordship is from home, my lord.”
“Perhaps you didn’t look under the bed,” said the Viscount.
A hoarse laugh from the man in the frieze coat greeted this sally. “Ah, you’ve hit it, your honour. He’s a peevy cull, and so I allus said.”
“Eh?” said Sir Roland, regarding him through his eye-glass. “Who’s this fellow Pel?”
“How the devil should I know?” demanded the Viscount. “Now you stay where you are, what-ever-your-name is. I’m going up to have a little talk with his lordship.”
The butler placed himself at the foot of the stairs. “Sir, his lordship is not in the house!” He saw the Viscount draw the pistol from his pocket, and gasped: “My lord!”
“Stand out of my way, or you might get hurt,” said the Viscount.
The butler retreated. “I assure your lordship—I—I don’t understand, my lord! My master is gone into the country!”
The Viscount gave a snort, and ran up the stairs. He came back in a very few moments. “True enough. He’s not there.”