“This is Mr. Warburton’s study, sir; I will take up your name.”
Van Vernet gazes about him, marking the gorgeous richness of the room. A study! There are massive book-cases filled with choicest lore; cabinets containing all that is curious, antique, rare, beautiful, and costly; there are plaques and bronzes; there is a mantle laden with costly bric-a-brac; a grand old-fashioned fire-place and fender; there are divans and easy chairs; rich draperies on wall and at windows, and all in the rarest tints of olive, crimson, and bronze.
Van Vernet looks about him and says to himself:
“This is a room after my own heart. Mr. Warburton, of Warburton Place, must be a sybarite, and should be a happy man. Ah, he is coming.”
But it is not Mr. Warburton who enters. It is a colored valet, sleek, smiling, obsequious, who bears in his hand a gilded salver, with a letter upon it, and upon his arm a parcel wrapped in black silk.
“You are Mr. Vernet?” queries this personage, as if in doubt.
“Yes.”
“Then this letter is for you.”
And the valet bows low, and extends the salver, adding softly:
“I am Mr. Warburton’s body servant.”