“There’s bin ructions while you were away, my lord,” the butler had whispered, waylaying him in the hall just before midnight. “Lady St. Maur has upset the Earl somethink dreadful;” and Medenham had growled in reply: “Her ladyship will lunch here at one o’clock to-morrow, Tomkinson. Have an ambulance ready at two, for she will be in little pieces before I have done with her. The mangling will be somethink orful.”
“But what has become of Dale, my lord?” went on Tomkinson in a hushed voice.
“Dale? He is all right. Why? Is he in the soup, too?”
“No, my lord. I’ve heard nothink of that, but he sent me a wire from Bristol——”
“A telegram—about what?”
“About a horse.”
“Oh, the deuce take you and your horses. By the way, that reminds me—you gave me a rotten tip for the Derby.”
“It was a false run race, my lord. The favorite was swep’ off his feet at Tattenham Corner, and couldn’t get into his stride again till the field was opposite Langland’s Stands. After that——”
“After that I’m going to bed. But I forgive you, Tomkinson. You put up a ripping good lunch. You’re a far better butler than a tipster.”