CHAPTER VIII
LORD PETER'S S.O.S.
"THE bath is ready, my lord."
Lord Peter Bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that another day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously. For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he moved noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such precision and self-repression were natural or acquired.
To Bowen Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at what hour Bowen had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he had just shaved. In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed by one law—order. He was noiseless, wordless, selfless. Bowen was convinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, Peel would merely say: "His Lordship is not at home, sir."
Thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed the individuality of negation. He looked nothing in particular, seemed nothing in particular, did everything to perfection. His face was a barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to
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