“Have to fetch him out of that,” said Mr. Mergleson, suddenly preparing for brisk activity.
Thomas bent lower over the banisters.
“The Lord Chancellor!” he whispered with white lips and a sideways gesture of his head.
“What about ’im?” said Mergleson, arrested by something in the manner of Thomas.
Thomas’s whisper became so fine that Mr. Mergleson drew nearer to catch it and put up a hand to his ear. Thomas repeated the last remark. “He’s just through there—on the landing—cursing and swearing—’orrible things—more like a mad turkey than a human being.”
“Where’s Bealby?”
“He must almost ’ave run into ’im,” said Thomas after consideration.
“But now—where is he?”
Thomas pantomimed infinite perplexity.
Mr. Mergleson reflected and decided upon his line. He came up the service staircase, lifted his chin and with an air of meek officiousness went through the green door. There was no one now on the landing, there was nothing remarkable on the landing except a broken tumbler, but half-way up the grand staircase stood the Lord Chancellor. Under one arm the great jurist carried a soda water syphon and he grasped a decanter of whisky in his hand. He turned sharply at the sound of the green baize door and bent upon Mr. Mergleson the most terrible eyebrows that ever, surely! adorned a legal visage. He was very red in the face and savage-looking.