Overwhelmed with this uncompromising eulogy, Mr. Bliggins went off night-duty at the rate of twelve miles an hour, and forgot to shut the door behind him.
"You're a beautiful subject," Mr. Ingerstall cried out after him—"beautiful!"
The Duke began to look vicious.
"You've frightened the fellow," he said. "Why didn't you leave him alone?"
"Leave a monstrosity alone! Leave a human grotesque in ignorance of his superb infirmity!" cried the artist. "I'll draw him this moment."
He followed Bliggins as a bullet follows a bird, caught him in a pantry, caricatured him in seventeen seconds, and was up in the lemon bedroom enlarging the original to life size before three minutes had fallen into the lap of the past. Meanwhile the Duke and the paragon were left alone among the soda-water bottles. At first they did not speak. The paragon smoked an immense pipe, whose bowl presented a carved effigy of the features of Peter Jackson, the pugilist. The Duke observed him doing so through the homicidal clergyman who wanted a quiet home; but presently his Grace's intent secrecy caused an accident. Endeavouring slightly to enlarge his peep-hole with a cautious finger, he tore a gap through which a circus-rider might have jumped. The paragon gave him a surly glance, which was rewarded with an elaborate smile, for the Duke was resolved to know more before he showed his hand or revealed his suspicions. He laid down the paper and lit a cigar.
"Nice and quiet here," he said conversationally.
Mr. Bush nodded, without removing Peter Jackson from his mouth.
"Nobody about," continued the Duke, with a jocular demeanour.