“Gentlemen, gentlemen—the guests will be arriving in a few minutes——”
Rippley went up to him, and gripping his fingers in the old servant’s waistcoat, pulled him into the room.
“Don’t talk like an unfrocked bishop, Dukes—it’s most irreligious,” said he. “Look here”—he slapped the old man’s chest jocosely—“your master and the amateur aristocracy used to have private theatricals here. Where are his wigs and make-up things? Where does he keep them? Quick!”
The old butler promptly began to retire backwards upon a handsome cabinet:
“Gentlemen, gentlemen; surely I have no need to remind you that Mr. Pangbutt’s wigs are his private property,” said the shocked, anxious old man. “I haven’t Mr. Pangbutt’s permission——”
Rippley followed him up, grimly smiling:
“Get out, you old panjandrum!” said he. “You’ve shown the hiding-place, you naughty old deceiver. Go away!”
He pushed the expostulating old man from the cabinet, and, throwing open the drawers, proceeded to ransack them.
“Hullo!” he cried—“splendid!”
He struck a match: