He was dressed in plum-coloured velvet. Across his waistcoat was a watch-chain set with rubies that he fingered with his coarse left hand, as if he could not forget it; he wore a large, old-fashioned peruke heavily powdered, that, flowing on to his shoulders, gave a touch of remote dignity to his person, belied by his shrewd, alert face.
"Your lordship must excuse the disorder of my house," he said. "We are but newly arrived in London."
"I observe no disorder," answered the Earl. His slow glance rested on the owner of the mansion. "It appears to me prodigious neat."
Mr. Hilton bowed.
"Will you be seated, my lord?"
Rose Lyndwood moved to one of the stiff, awkward-looking sofas, and seated himself there, with his back to the light.
"You received my letter?" he asked, placing his hat beside him.
"I had that honour, my lord."
Mr. Hilton placed himself in one of the covered chairs, sat erect in unconscious discomfort, and gazed at the Earl with narrowed eager eyes.
"Then there is the less for me to say," answered Rose Lyndwood.