By the time he returned, after a fruitless pursuit, Mr. Jeckell's nose had stopped bleeding. "Did you hever?" said the porter. "What the blazes did she mean by first givin' the alarm and then aidin' and abettin'? And she looked so innercent-like, too. The first hartist as I've ever encouraged, and the larst. Whatever will Mr. Toft say, Maria? It's as much as my place is worth. After all these years of faithful service, too!"
But Mr. Toft was less demonstrative than might have been expected.
The next gathering of the Burglars' Club proved the most important in the history of the Club since its foundation. Every detail of it is firmly impressed on the memory of each member present; yet they never by any chance refer to that meeting. One and all would like to forget it—if they could.
It was held at Marmaduke Percy's rooms, his Grace of Dorchester, the President of the year, being in the chair.
The Secretary read the minutes, and concluded: "The business of the evening is the payment of an entrance fee—the Nelson Goblet of the Fellmongers' Company—by Martin Legendre Craven, fourth Baron Horton, a cadet member of the Club."
Lord Horton entered, bowed, and amidst general applause, placed on the table a richly-chased goblet of gold.
"Lord Horton's entrance fee being paid," said the President, "I now move that he be enrolled as a full member." Carried unanimously.
"My lord, you are one of us."
Lord Horton advanced to the table and looked round with calm deliberation. He was a notable man—the best amateur low comedian of his day, a traveller who had pressed far into Thibet, a diplomatist at the mention of whose name the Turk shifted uneasily in his seat and fixed his eyes despondently on the floor. He had won his V.C. in China. He had done many things.