Chapter Seventy.
A Skilful Driver.
“Mrs Girdwood at home?” he asked, addressing himself to the janitor of the hotel.
“I’ll see, sir,” answered the man, making him an obsequious bow, and hurrying away to the office.
The hall-keeper remembered the gent, who carried such good cigars, and was so liberal with them. He had been pleased with his appearance then. He liked it better now in a new coat, unquestionably a Poole, with pants, boots, and tile to correspond. Besides, he had glanced through the glass-door, and seen the cabriolet with its top-booted tiger. To the owners of such he was instinctively polite; but more so to Mr Swinton, remembering his choice cigars.
The ex-guardsman waited for his return with some anxiety. The cabriolet, tiger included, had cost him a “sov.” It would be awkward, if the twenty shillings had been laid out in vain.
He was relieved at the return of the Clarendon Cerberus.
“Mrs Girdwood and fambly are in, sir. Shall I send up your card?”