"Parker's taken ill," said Mr. Bradshaw savagely. "He's sent this screw to take his place."
"So thoughtful of Parker," murmured the little man. "What's your name, and where do you come from?" addressing the candidate for office.
"James Finny, sir—from Mr. Birket Rivers."
"Mr. Birket Rivers," reflected the other. "Ah, to be sure—Mr. Birket Rivers, the young millionaire. Drives a team of spanking bays at the Four-in-Hand meets. Attaché at Constantinople, or something. Came into money and left the Service. Wishes he'd stopped in it, I believe. A very active young gentleman. Oh, yes, I've heard of your master—your late master, James Finny."
The little man was studying him intently all the time. Then he fixed his eyes on Rivers' hands. He lifted the right one, looked at it, and passed on.
There was a loud ring, and a footman entered with "Please, Mr. Bradshaw, there's the gentlemen come from the hembassy."
The butler bustled to the door. "Go up to Parker's room, and change into his things at once, and then come down to me in the 'all," he said to Rivers.
"Yes, sir," Rivers replied. "Beg pardon, Mr. Bradshaw, who was that small gentleman wot just left us?"
"That small gentleman," said Mr. Bradshaw, with swelling dignity, "is Mr. Marvell, from Scotland Yard; so you'd better be careful, Finny."
Prince Ali Azim, accompanied by the Vizier and a numerous suite, arrived that afternoon, and the whole household was thenceforth kept busy attending to the wants, numerous and peculiar, of the Persians. Rivers' chief duties were to attend to the hall door, and to help to wait at meals. He did his work to the satisfaction of Mr. Bradshaw, and never a day passed without Mr. Marvell, who was installed as the protecting angel of the establishment, staring fixedly at him, and then passing some word of commendation in a tone that brought the blood to his face.