It was Roseveldt who answered the summons.
The Count had become a resident of London—an idler upon town—for want of congenial employment elsewhere.
Some fragment of his fortune still remaining, enabled him to live the life of a flaneur, while his title of nobility gave him the entrée of many a good door.
But, like Maynard, he too was pining for an active life, and disgusted to look daily upon his sword, rusting ingloriously in its sheath!
By the mode in which he made entry, something whispered Maynard, that the time had come when both were to be released from their irksome inaction. The Count was flurried, excited, tugging at his moustache, as if he intended tearing it away from his lip!
“What is it, my dear Roseveldt?”
“Don’t you smell gunpowder?”
“No.”
“There’s some being burnt by this time.”
“Where?”