"You may rely upon my most earnest endeavours, madam," he said, and quietly withdrew, as she stretched a trembling hand to the bell.
"Poor soul! I'm afraid there must be sorrow for those grey hairs before we come to the end of the story," mused Faunce, as he walked back to his rooms.
He wrote to Chater, the valet, asking him to call in Essex Street next morning on particular business concerning Colonel Rannock; and the valet appeared, with exact punctuality, neatly clad, with well-brushed hat and slim umbrella, and a little look about the clean-shaved chin, broad chest, and close-cut hair, that told Faunce he had once shouldered arms, and swung round to the "Right turn!" in the white dust of a barrack-yard.
Chater was eminently a man of the world, very easy to get on with, when he had heard Faunce's credentials, and knew what was wanted of him, in Mrs. Rannock's interests. He had been Rannock's soldier-servant in Afghanistan, and had lived with him between eleven and twelve years.
"And I think you liked him," said Faunce.
"Yes, sir; I liked my master. He was a devil, but he was the kind of devil I like."
"And I suppose you knew Miss Delmaine?"
"Couldn't help that, sir. She was a devil, and the kind of devil I don't like. She was the ruin of my master—blue ruin, Mr. Faunce. He might have kept inside the ropes but for her."
"Did you know anything of his courtship of Lady Perivale?"
"Of course I did, sir. I had to carry the 'cello backwards and forwards between the Albany and Grosvenor Square."