THE HUN NATION DECREASES BY ONE
"Your legs undoubtedly are," remarked Hugh, gazing at them dispassionately. "Put on some trousers—and, get a move on. Now you"—he jerked the other man to his feet—"when does Lakington return?"
"Termorrow, sir," stammered the other.
"Where is he now?"
The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh's eyes galvanised him into speech.
"He's after the old woman's pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire's."
"Ah!" returned Hugh softly. "Of course he is. I forgot."
"Strike me dead, guv'nor," cringed the man, "I never meant no 'arm—I didn't really. I'll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite."
"I'm quite certain you will," said Hugh. "And if you don't, you swine, I'll make you. When does Peterson come back?"
"Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows," answered the man, and at that moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled by an accurate and forcible kick from Toby, who had followed him in to ensure rapidity of toilet.
"And what's he doing?" demanded Drummond.
"On the level, guv'nor, I can't tell yer. Strite, I can't; 'e can." The man pointed to the latest arrival, who, with his nightdress tucked into his trousers, stood gasping painfully after the manner of a recently landed fish.
"I repeat, sir," he sputtered angrily, "that this is an outrage. By what right…"