“I’m not sure I like this study business,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams as they followed the page through many halls and corridors to a distant part of the house in the walled garden. They passed through marble halls radiant with slender columns and crystal fountains, through arcades flaming with flowers in vases of Venetian glass, beneath sombre tapestries of the chase after fabulous beasts, by tables of satinwood and cabinets of ebony, jade and pearl: until at last they were conducted to a quiet-seeming door, and were no sooner within than what appeared to be a regiment of Hussars of Death or Honour had pinioned their arms to their sides.
“This is outrage!” cried my lord with very cold eyes.
“Gentlemen, you are under arrest,” said an officer with moustachios whose name the chronicler has unfortunately overlooked.
“We’re under what?” cried Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“And you will await His Highness’s pleasure in this room,” said the officer with moustachios, but he had no sooner spoken than the Duke entered, followed by a lean young officer with pitiless eyes.
“Altesse!” saluted the Hussars of Death or Honour.
Not so Lord Quorn. “Sir,” cried he, “this is outrage and assault on the persons of King George’s subjects. Do you forget that you are in England, sir?”
“Silence!” thundered the officer with moustachios.
“Silence be damned!” cried Mr. Woodhouse Adams. “Your Highness, what can this piracy mean? I wish to lodge a formal complaint.”
“Sir, take it as lodged,” said His Highness graciously, but it was with lowered brows that he turned to address my lord.