Vaughan laughed. “I fear not,” he said. “There are appointments and appointments, Sergeant Wathen. Mine is not of a professional nature.”
Still the sergeant’s face, do what he would, looked grim. He had his reasons for disliking what he heard. “Indeed!” he said drily. “Indeed! But I must not detain you. Your time,” with a faint note of sarcasm, “is valuable.” And with a civil salutation the two parted.
Wathen went back to his companion. “Talk of the Old One!” he said. “Do you know who that is?”
“No,” the other answered. They had been discussing the coming election. “Who is it?”
“One of my constituents.”
His friend laughed. “Oh, come,” he said. “I thought you had but one, sergeant—old Vermuyden.”
“Only one,” Wathen answered, his eyes travelling from group to group, “who counts; or rather, who did count. But thirteen who poll. And that’s one of them.” He glanced frowning in the direction which Vaughan had taken. “And what do you think his business is here, confound him?”
“What?”
“An appointment with old Wicked Shifts.”
“With the Chancellor? Pheugh!”