He was disciplined, he was under orders. He pulled himself together, banished all wild and speculative thought—sat up in the saddle, gripped the sides of his cob with his knees, and set his left arm akimbo.
"This is the house, sir," said the trooper, saluting.
"Very well," Johnnie answered, as his servant dismounted and took his horse by the bridle.
Johnnie leapt to the ground, pulled his sword-belt into position, settled his hat upon his head, and with his gloved fist beat upon the big red door before him.
In ten seconds he heard a step on the other side of the door. It swung open, and a tall, thin person, wearing a scarlet robe and a mask of black velvet over the upper part of the face, bowed low before him, and with a gesture invited him to enter.
Johnnie turned round.
"You will stay here," he said to the men. "Be quite silent, and don't stray away a yard from the door."
Then he followed the tall, thin figure, which closed the door, and flitted down a short passage in front of him with noiseless footsteps.
He knew at once that he was in Queer Street.
The nondescript figure in its fantastic robe and mask struck a chill of disgust to his blood.