“All right, sir. You are sure I won’t be detained later than eleven?”
“Yes; I’ve a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves’ dens in this”—[page 33].
“You have only to meet the lady, receive her instructions, and come away.”
“I hope I shall live through the ordeal,” rising once more and shaking himself like a water-spaniel, “but I’d rather face all the hosts of Rag Alley.”
And Richard Stanhope left the Agency to “overhaul” the innocent masquerade costume that held, in its white and crimson folds, the fate of its owner.
Leaving him thus employed, let us follow the footsteps of Van Vernet, and enter with him the stately portals of the home of the Warburtons.
Crossing a hall that is a marvel of antique richness, with its walls of russet, old gold, and Venetian red tints; its big claw-footed tables; its massive, open-faced clock, with huge weights a-swing below; its statuettes and its bass-reliefs, we pass under a rich portierie, and hear the liveried footman say, evidently having been instructed: