Just a few turns of his wrist and the knocker was his, a glorious brass knocker, weighing half a pound. No other young man in London that night could have done the business like that or shown such dexterity in an art lost as the art of pinchbeck-making.
He collected two more knockers in that street, retaining only one as a trophy. He threw the others into an area, pulled the house doorbell violently, and ran.
In Berkeley Square he was just beginning to deal with another knocker, when the door opened to an elderly woman of the housekeeper type and a dachshund.
"What do you want?" asked the housekeeper.
"Does the Duke of Cu-cu-cumberland live here?" hiccupped Simon.
"No, sir, he does not."
"Sorry—sorry—sorry," said Simon. "My mistake—entirely my mistake. Very sorry to trouble you indeed. What a pretty little dog! What's his name?"
He was entirely affable now, and, forgetful of knockers, wished to strike up a friendship, a desire unshared evidently by the lady.
"I think you had better go away," said she, recognising a gentleman and mourning the fact.