Paul Marchmont shook his head, and held out the empty tumbler for his servant to pour more brandy into it.
"I am going away," he said; "but I want no servant where I'm going; but I'm grateful to you for your offer, Peterson. Will you come upstairs with me? I want to pack a few things."
"They're all packed, sir. I knew you'd be leaving, and I've packed everything."
"My dressing–case?"
"Yes, sir. You've got the key of that."
"Yes; I know, I know."
Paul Marchmont was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Everything that he had in the way of personal property of any value was in the dressing–case of which he had spoken. There was five or six hundred pounds' worth of jewellery in Mr. Marchmont's dressing–case; for the first instinct of the nouveau riche exhibits itself in diamond shirt–studs, cameo rings, malachite death's–heads with emerald eyes; grotesque and pleasing charms in the form of coffins, coal–scuttles, and hobnailed boots; fantastical lockets of ruby and enamel; wonderful bands of massive yellow gold, studded with diamonds, wherein to insert the two ends of flimsy lace cravats. Mr. Marchmont reflected upon the amount of his possessions, and their security in the jewel–drawer of his dressing–case. The dressing–case was furnished with a Chubb's lock, the key of which he carried in his waistcoat–pocket. Yes, it was all safe.
"Look here, Peterson," said Paul Marchmont; "I think I shall sleep at Mrs. Weston's to–night. I should like you to take my dressing–case down there at once."
"And how about the other luggage, sir,––the portmanteaus and hat–boxes?"
"Never mind those. I want you to put the dressing–case safe in my sister's hands. I can send here for the rest to–morrow morning. You needn't wait for me now. I'll follow you in half an hour."