“It’s little enough help you’ve ever been to me, sure!” sneered Rensley. “Your Munich gaming-houses!”
“It’s little help you’ll have from me in the future!” Mr Markham cried, and left his friend fuming.
He was let out of the house by a solemn lackey, who had spent the morning discussing his master’s freak below-stairs. He walked down the steps, and became aware of a shabby gentleman, hesitating by the railings. He looked with casual interest, wondering what this individual wanted.
The shabby gentleman accosted him. “Your pardon, sir, but does my Lord Barham live here?”
Mr Markham gave a short laugh. “There’s certainly a man within calls himself Lord Barham,” he said.
The shabby gentleman looked a little puzzled. “It’s — it’s a small man, with a hook nose,” he ventured. “That’s the man I want to see, sir.”
Mr Markham paused, and his eyes took in the stranger more thoroughly. There was an air of mystery about the man, and some slight savour of nervousness. If this was one of my lord’s late associates it was quite possible that something might be gathered from him of no little importance. “I’m a friend of Lord Barham,” said Markham, in a tone meant to inspire confidence. “Do me the favour of stepping up to my rooms with me.”
The stranger seemed to shrink into himself; hurriedly he declined the honour: he desired to see my lord, and none other.
Mr Markham’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused. He took the stranger by the elbow, and abandoning the conciliatory tone, said unpleasantly: — “Ay, you’re in a mighty hurry to be off, aren’t you? Now what should the likes of you have to say to Lord Barham that no one else may hear?”
The stranger tried to break away. “Nothing, sir, I assure you! A matter for my lord’s private ear! I beg you won’t detain me.”