“We are a trifle early, Dukes, I am afraid,” said he, going up to the dignified old man—“but if Mr. Rippley will insist on sitting between the reins on the top of the hansom, the cabby drives hard to escape the inquisitive attention of the police—a body of men, Dukes, that live feverishly anxious to catch something and are bored with the greyness of the popular virtue.”
He tapped the old man on the shirt-front.
The butler bowed stiffly, and withdrew.
Fluffy Reubens strode airily into the middle of the room and surveyed it:
“I say,” said he—“portrait painting seems to pay, eh?”
Lovegood coughed:
“H’m—n’yes,” he grunted; and added tragically: “When you can paint portraits.”
“Get out!” said Fluffy, and flung himself into an easy-chair.
Rippley strolled round the room and tested the electric lights; his hands itching to be at any devilment:
“Oho!” said he—“so the curtain is to go up to-night and discover the real Anthony Bickersteth—the man of mystery—the writer of the book!... I suppose it ain’t Pangbutt himself!”