“And what do you call that pretty confection?’’ enquired Ulverston.
“The Napoleon — how can you be so ignorant? Do you think I ought not to wear it?”
“No, but I wonder you don’t start a fashion of your own! Earthquake à la St. Erth! How’s that, dear boy?”
Turvey gave a discreet cough. “If I may be permitted to say so, my lord, the Desborough tie already enjoys a considerable degree of popularity in the highest circles. We are at present perfecting the design of the Stanyon Fall, which, when disclosed, will, I fancy take the ton by storm.”
“You should not betray our secrets, Turvey,” Gervase said, standing up to allow the valet to help him to put on his coat. “Thank you: nothing more!”
Turvey bowed, and turned away to gather up the discarded riding-coat and breeches. The Earl had picked up a knife from his dressing-table, and was trimming his nails, and did not immediately look up. The valet paused, laid the breeches down again, and thrust a hand into the tail-pocket of the coat. He drew forth the coil of thin cord which was spoiling the set of the coat, and in the same instant the Earl raised his head, and perceived what he was doing. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face; he said, with rather more sharpness than was usually heard in his voice: “Yes, leave that here!”
The slight bow with which Turvey received this order expressed to a nicety his opinion of those who carried coils of cord in their pockets. He was about to lay the cord on the chair when the Viscount stepped forward, and took it out of his hand.
“You may go.” The Earl’s head was bent again over his task.
Ulverston returned to the fireplace, testing the cord by jerking a length of it between his hands. When Turvey had withdrawn, he said: “Saw a whole front rank brought down by that trick once. Mind, that was at night! — ambush!”
The Earl said nothing.