After Chesty Todd had entered, stumbling over the rug and bowing low to the ladies, another form shuffled silently through the doorway in his wake—a little, dried-up, withered man with tousled hair, his cap under his arm, a woebegone and hopeless expression on his leathery face.
“Tyler!” cried a surprised chorus.
The ex-chauffeur did not acknowledge the greeting. Chesty, extending one arm toward the man as if he were exhibiting a trained animal, said sternly:
“Down on your knees!”
Tyler bumped his kneecaps upon the floor in an attitude of meek humiliation.
“Now, then!”
“M-m-m—pardon,” gurgled the little chauffeur, not with contrition but rather as an enforced plea for mercy.
Chesty kicked his shins.
“Get up,” he commanded.
Tyler slowly rose, surveyed the group stealthily from beneath his brows and then dropped his eyes again, standing with bowed shoulders before them and nervously twirling his cap in his hands.