“Oh, yes, my lord!” replied Bootle tranquilly. “Your lordship may rely upon me. And, if I may be permitted to take the liberty, my lord, there is no occasion for your lordship to concern yourself over the Bradgates, them being related to me, and not ones to chatter about their betters.”
“I’m obliged to you,” the Viscount said, with an effort. “You do not know if her ladyship summoned a hackney, or — or a chair?”
“No, my lord. But if your lordship desires me so to do I could make discreet inquiries.”
“Do so, if you please.”
“Very good, my lord. Will your lordship receive my Lord Wrotham, or shall I inform his lordship that you have stepped out?”
“Lord Wrotham!”
“Downstairs in your lordship’s library,” said Bootle.
“I’ll see him,” the Viscount said, and went swiftly out of the room.
Lord Wrotham, arrayed in the much-coveted insignia of that most exclusive of driving clubs, the F.H.C., with a drab greatcoat sporting no fewer than sixteen capes over all, was standing by the fireplace in the library, one top-booted foot resting on the fender. One glance at his host’s face, as he entered the room, his blue eyes bright and hard with something between hope and suspicion, made him speak before Sherry had had time to do more than utter his name.
“Hallo, Sherry!” he said. “When did you get back to town? Thought you was at Melton still.”