He bowed briefly and strode towards the door, such a look of ferocity on his face that Mr Ringwood protested. “No, really, George! Really, I say! Ten to one it is due to some trifling accident, and they will arrive here at any moment! Dash it, Monty would not — George!”
Lord Wrotham, casting him no more than a contemptuous glance, vanished from the room. Mr Ringwood turned to Sherry. “Think I’d better go after him, dear old boy!” he said. “You know what he is! Don’t like Monty, but can’t let George murder him — for that’s what it would be: sheer murder! Very obedient servant, Lady Sheringham! Wish you good fortune, Sherry, dear old boy!”
The dowager sank down upon a chair, quite overcome by the sudden twist of events. She raised her handkerchief to her eyes and was just about to bemoan her son’s approaching reconciliation with his wife when a servant came to the door to announce the arrival of the Honourable Ferdy Fakenham, who had been invited to dine in the Royal Crescent. The Viscount, glad to escape a more than ordinarily foolish jeremiad from his parent, bade the man invite Ferdy to step into his room, and turned his attention to the far more pressing problem of the choice of a fob to finish off his toilet.
Ferdy, upon his entering the room, was at once regaled by his aunt with a tearful account of the disasters which, she was convinced, had overtaken them all. He shook his head and said that Monty was a Bad Man, and there was no saying where the havoc created by that old Greek fellow would end. This attracted the Viscount’s interest, and he was just going to demand an explanation of his cousin when Bootle entered the room, looking offended, and informing him that Jason, whom he freely designated a Varmint, insisted on having instant speech with him.
“What the deuce can he want?” said his lordship. “Where is he?”
“Here I be, guvnor!” responded the Tiger, diving under Bootle’s arm. “Out of breath I be, what’s more, loping after a rattler fit to bust meself!”
“You’re boozy!” said his lordship severely.
“I ain’t! You send that fat chub off, and I’ll tell you something as you had ought to know! Yes, and don’t you go putting your listeners forward t’other side of the door!” he added.
Bootle was so much affronted by this admonition that he stalked from the room without another word, shutting the door with meticulous care behind him. The Tiger looked at his master, real trouble in his sharp eyes. “It’s the missus!” he blurted out.
The Viscount dropped the fob he had selected. “What?” he said quickly. “What has happened?”