“From head to foot.”
“Très bien! Perhaps that will be sufficient.” Without farther parley, a word-painting of the ex-dictator of Hungary was done upon stamped paper.
It was a full-length portrait, giving his height, age, the hue of his hair, the colour of his skin, and the capacity in which he was to serve.
From the written description, not a bad sort of body-servant should be “James Dawkins.”
(This is an actual fact. I still have in my possession the passport. E.R.)
“Exceedingly obliged, monsieur!” said Maynard, receiving the sheet from the agent, at the same time slipping into the hand that gave it a couple of shining sovereigns. Then adding, “Your politeness has saved me a world of trouble,” he hastened out of the office, leaving the Frenchman in a state of satisfied surprise with a grimace upon his countenance that only a true son of Gaul can give.
Early in the afternoon of that same day, master and man were quite ready to start.
The portmanteaus were packed, their travelling gear arranged, and tickets had been secured for the night mail, via Dover and Calais.
They only waited for the hour of its departure from London.