"What time?" muttered Rohscheimer, "what time——"
Sir Richard Haredale, who evidently thought that the financier had had one of his "heavy nights," smiled discreetly.
"Pull yourself together, Rohscheimer!" he said. "Just put your head under the tap and jump into a dressing-gown. The green one with golden dragons is the most unique. You'll have to hold an informal reception here in your dressing-room. We can't keep the Marquess waiting."
"The Marquess?" groaned Rohscheimer, clutching at his head. "The Marquess?"
It had been his social dream for years to behold a real live Marquess beneath that roof. He had gone so far as to offer Haredale five hundred pounds down if he could bring one to dinner. But Haredale's best achievement to date had been Lord Vignoles.
Rohscheimer's mind was a furious chaos. Had the horrors of the night been no more than a dream, after all?
Sheard, of the Gleaner, pressed forward and grasped both his hands. Rohscheimer became ghastly pale.
"Mr. Rohscheimer," said the pressman, "England is proud of you! On such occasions as this, all formality—all formality—is swept away. A great man is great anywhere—at any time, any place, in any garb! I have Mrs. Rohscheimer's permission, and therefore am honoured to introduce to this apartment the Premier, the Most Honourable the Marquess of Evershed!"
Trembling wildly, fighting down a desire to laugh, to scream, Rohscheimer stood and looked toward the door.
The Marquess entered.