“Spirit lamp—everything. Ginger! Here’s a glorious short beard affair that goes down the middle of the chin and all along the throat.”
He put it on.
“By Clarkson, makes me look like a ducal butler—I’ll be butler.”
He flung off his coat, and his deft fingers began to fix the disguise on his chin.
The butler touched him upon his shirt-sleeve in dignified despair:
“Gentlemen,” said he—“this is not decent. I repeat—it is not honest.”
“Go hon!” said Rippley, punching the old man in the ribs with his elbow, and working away at the fixing of his throat-beard. “Look here, Fluffy,” he called hurriedly—“you and Doome must run this pompous old dolt downstairs and shoot him into the cellar—and lock him in. Quick! or the people will be arriving.... I hear carriage-wheels.”
Robbins and Doome seized the shocked old man and hurried his protesting stiff being out of the room and down the stairs.
Rippley followed them to the top of the stairs, making up his disguise as he went:
“Look here, boys,” he called down in a hoarse whisper—“if the old fool will swear not to move away from the hall door until we release him you needn’t put him in the cellar.... What?... Eh?... He says he surrenders? That’s all right then. Now back with you—quick! or the guests will be here—or Pangbutt himself.”