"Now look here, my Boy," went on Mr. Whaley, in his heaviest manner, slowly transforming himself into the distant Superior and pronouncing divine moral judgment and guidance, as it were, for the very young. "You listen to me, and listen solemn. This may be a turning point in your life, it may. Talk like this among the lower servants, let alone a little bastard not yet sixteen, 'as been the ruin of some—aye, of many. So I tell ye. The gaols are full of 'em. Now, you mark what I say, young Ethelbert"—it was the first time he had ever used the entire name, but the occasion demanded it—"one word from your lips, and you're ruined. It's well you come to one like me, that might be your father like, and that has a care for your future, my lad. Remember that! One word from your lips, and you're ruined. It's not for you to be piecing this and that together. Gentlemen 'ave got ways o' their own, and, anyhow, I'm slow to believe you. There may be a game about all this, and, anyhow, not a word from your lips. Mark, my lad!" he went on, his voice booming, "ye're lost if ye speak. Have you taken that?" he ended, almost shouting again.
"Oh, yes, sir!" said the miserable Ethelbert, trembling. "Oh, sir, I meant no harm...."
"Well, then, you go and do no harm," concluded Mr. Whaley, and waved the infant away.
* * * * * * *
Mr. Whaley rose to his full height and girth and stretched. He looked in a little square looking-glass, one of his necessaries of life, thought his tie doubtful, carefully and gingerly put on a new one, worthy of the occasion. His boots—he glanced down at them—yes, his boots would do. His trousers were just what they should be. The fringe of hair round the majestic dome of his head never needed attention less than now.
It was a solemn moment in history. He, George Whaley, a man of weight and years, possessed, moreover, now of a sufficient competence, but not undesirous of making it larger still, was in possession of the dread secret. The head of the de Bohuns, one of His Majesty's principal Secretaries of State, had fallen, fallen, fallen! Humphrey de Bohun had pinched his own daughter's emerald. The Emerald of Catherine the Great. The fortune of the de Bohuns lay concealed by his master's hand, awaiting the receiver's gold. Oh, horror! In what embarrassment the unfortunate man had committed the fatal act Mr. Whaley knew not: could so good a man have been blackmailed by scoundrels? Why should he need money—and money at such risk? Alas! who can plumb the depths of the human heart? thought George Whaley—indeed, he almost spoke the words aloud, so apposite did they seem, and so often had he read them in his book of devotions. Yet was it so! And ever, in the least expected places, thought George Whaley again, lies the solution of a mystery. He shot his cuffs, drew himself up, coughed a little, and rehearsed the scene.
"I beg your pardon, sir, may I have the honour of a moment's confidential word with you?" And then another discreet cough.
Then how to put it? He thought long and deeply. He must put it with sympathy—almost as a friend. He must not forget that he was talking to a superior. It would need very skilful handling; but what are butlers for if they cannot skilfully handle? It is the very core of buttling!
He had handled other situations in his other situations, had Mr. Whaley: none quite so delicate as this, but still, some of 'em pretty delicate. Yes; he must talk to Humphrey as a friend. Respectfully, but as a friend: and above all firmly. It was clear that such a service would merit some reward.
God knows, there would be no tone of menace! Oh, no! Whatever honorarium might accrue to George Whaley as a reward for such revelation should be the gift of a grateful heart alone: and, said Mr. George Whaley to his own conscience, why not? He would be doing his master a very great service. Indeed, he would be doing a double service—nay, a treble one. For he would be rescuing the Home Secretary of England from his lower self; that was a moral service. He would be preventing him from inevitable discovery; that was a material service. He would be serving him faithfully as an honest domestic should; and that was a service of loyalty.