“Well, let ’em rip. I’m not touching the blamed things, anyway,” and having said that, he stopped frowning.
“He’s here in London,” went on the secretary, smiling slightly and watching his master.
“Here!” shouted the Duke suddenly. “Here? In London? Have they got it?” He jumped up in his excitement. “Have they got it upstairs?” He had his hand out for the bell.
The secretary began: “If I were you, Duke ...” but the Duke cut him short and snapped back, “Y’re not me, so that’s that.” Then as though he were ordering the least of his servants, “Send me Batterby, and keep yer mouth shut.”
The secretary rose quietly and without offense—he was used to it; and Batterby was shown in. Batterby wondered what it could be. He stood humbly turning his greasy soft hat round and round in his hands with nervousness, looking up humbly once or twice into his master’s face. The Duke leaned back with his legs crossed and the big cigar still going.
“Batterby,” said the chief, “did yer know about John K.?”
“Yes, y’r Grace,” said Batterby, almost inaudibly.
“And yer didn’t tell me, nor no one in this shop?”
“No, y’r Grace.”
“Well, it’s the boot, Batterby,” said the Duke genially, “De Order of de Boot. D’yer hear?” He uncrossed his legs and turned to the table again.