He struck a bell. Mr. Bliggins appeared.
"Where the devil's the absinthe?" cried the artist in his piercing voice.
"Beg pardon, sir," replied Bliggins, ostentatiously indicating to the Duke that he had his eye on Mr. Bush, and was earning his night-duty money.
"Ra-ta-ta! Dieu de Dieu, where is the absinthe, man? Haven't I told you night after night that I don't drink these Scotch and Irish abominations?"
"Certainly not, sir," said Bliggins impudently—"certainly not!"
He had nothing to expect from Mr. Ingerstall; and, besides, he found politeness as difficult an assumption as the pretence of being a retired major-general, or a Hungarian count out for a holiday. The astounded caricaturist snatched off his spectacles, wiped them like a conjuring trick, replaced them with a dab, and examined the detective with preternatural scrutiny.
"It's a gardener!" he shrieked, after a busy pause.
Mr. Bush shuffled in his elbow chair. Mr. Bliggins looked foolish and the Duke angry.
"A gardener, Ingerstall!" he said hastily. "What nonsense!"
"It is; I observed him this afternoon. I remember his nose like a teapot, his eyes like marbles, his retreating chin and protruding forehead, perfectly. His arms are too long for his body, and his legs too short for his height. He would make an admirable picture—admirable! I remember thinking so."