“About a fortnight ago—there or thereabout. I can look at the book and tell you?”
“Pray do!”
The Cerberus of the Clarendon—to an humble applicant for admission into that aristocratic establishment not much milder than he of the seven heads—turned into his box, and commenced examining the register of departures.
He was influenced to this civility by the aspect of the individual who made the request. To all appearance a “reg’lar gentleman,” was the reflection he had indulged in.
“Departures on the 25th,” spoke he, reading from the register: “Lord S— and Lady S—; the Hon. Augustus Stanton; the Duchess of P—; Mrs Girdwood and fambly—that’s them. They left on the 25th, sir.”
“The 25th. At what hour?”
“Well, that I can’t remember. You see, there’s so many goin’ and comin’. From their name being high up on the list, I d’say they went by a mornin’ train.”
“You’re sure they left no note for any one?”
“I can ask inside. What name?”
“Swinton—Mr Richard Swinton.”