“How monstrous!” said Gideon. “Nettlebed, how dare you?”
Nettlebed succeeded in wrenching himself free from Wragby’s grip. “You know well I don’t touch liquor. Master Gideon!” he said angrily. “Nor this isn’t the time for any of your tricks! Sir, his Grace never came home last night!”
Gideon yawned. “Turning Methodist, Nettlebed?”
Wragby gave a snigger. This exasperated Nettlebed into saying hotly: “Think shame to yourself, Master Gideon, a-casting such aspersions upon his Grace! Don’t you go saying as he takes up with bits of muslin, for he don’t and never has! His Grace left his house yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been seen since!”
“Ah, slipped his leash, has he?” said Gideon.
Nettlebed stared at him. “Slipped his leash? I don’t know what you mean, sir!”
“Bring my shaving-water, Wragby, will you?” said Gideon. “I mean, Nettlebed, that I’m surprised he hasn’t done it before. And why you should come to me—”
“Master Gideon, the only hope I had was that his Grace maybe spent the night here!”
“Well, he didn’t. Nor do I know where he is. I daresay he will return in his own good time.”
“Sir,” said Nettlebed, staring at him in horror, “never did I think to hear you, as was always the first to have a care to his Grace, speak in such a way!”