“Oh, I see! An inner pocket! A very cunning contrivance, sir: I must have one made for myself. What did you tell me you had in it?”
“I have a certain paper, sir — a letter writ to my Lord George Murray: writ by a man who called himself — Colney!”
“Good Gad, sir!” said my lord placidly. “But you don’t drink! You find my claret insipid, I fear. Let me send for some canary. Or do you prefer ale in the morning? My man shall procure you some on the instant. You have but to say the word.”
“You, sir, are that man!” declared Mr Markham in a ringing voice.
My lord jumped and blinked. “I am anything in the world you please,” he assured Mr Markham. “But don’t, I implore you, give me another such start!”
Mr Markham put a hand to his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. This he spread before my lord’s eyes, keeping it well out of reach.
My lord looked at it and nodded. “Very interesting,” he said.
“Very dangerous, my Lord of Barham!”
“Then I should take care of it,” advised my lord. “I do wish you would drink. I feel you detect something amiss with the claret which has escaped my palate.”
“To hell with the claret! What will you give for this document, my lord? What’s it worth, eh? A man’s life?”