“Repton, give me my cloak and hat, please,” commands the duke in a quiet, civil voice, and the magnificent functionary hastens to obey. He is wondering all the time, however, what it can be that takes his Grace out at such a time.
“A hansom, Repton, please.”
Repton turns to a crimson-plushed, knee-breeched, white-silk-stockinged subordinate.
“Call a hansom, John,” he says loftily. It would be quite impossible for himself, the great Mr. Repton, to perform such a menial office; no one could expect it of him. The whistle rings through Whitehall. Rumbling wheels answer the summons. In a few minutes a hansom dashes up. The great Mr. Repton holds open the front door; Evie Ravensdale passes out. One of the crimson-plushed, knee-breeched menials unfolds the cab doors, and stands with his hands over the wheels while his master springs in; then he closes them to.
“Where to, your Grace?” he inquires respectfully.
And Evie Ravensdale, looking up at his brilliantly lighted luxurious mansion above him, answers somewhat absently, “Whitechapel.”
The fit is on him to see and contrast the misery of some of London’s quarters with the wealth and the luxury which he has just quitted. Hector D’Estrange’s telegram has brought it to his mind. He remembers his last conversation with that dearly beloved friend, and how it had turned on that very point. The splendour of his own mansion, the brilliancy that he saw around him a few minutes since is about to be changed for cold, dark, ill-lighted streets, narrow alleys, and filthy courts. He wants to see it all for himself.
The hansom rattles through the streets. It goes at a good pace, but it seems a long time getting to its destination. At length it pulls up.
“What part of Whitechapel, sir?” inquires the cabman, looking through the aperture in the roof of his vehicle.
“You may put me down here, cabby,” answers the young duke, handing him half-a-sovereign; “and if you like to wait for me, I may be about an hour gone. I’ll pay you well, if you will.”