A firm hand was laid on the door-handle, turning it cleanly round. The door opened to admit a veritable apparition, and was closed again with a snap.
The lawyer found himself gazing at a slight, rather tall gentleman who swept him a profound bow, gracefully flourishing his smart three-cornered hat with one hand and delicately clasping cane and perfumed handkerchief with the other. He was dressed in the height of the Versailles fashion, with full-skirted coat of palest lilac laced with silver, small-clothes and stockings of white, and waistcoat of flowered satin. On his feet he wore shoes with high red heels and silver buckles, while a wig of the latest mode, marvellously powdered and curled and smacking greatly of Paris, adorned his shapely head. In the foaming lace of his cravat reposed a diamond pin, and on the slim hand, half covered by drooping laces, glowed and flashed a huge emerald.
The lawyer stared and stared again, and it was not until a pair of deep blue, rather wistful eyes met his in a quizzical glance, that he found his tongue. Then a look of astonishment came into his face, and he took a half step forward.
“Master Jack!” he gasped. “Master—Jack!”
The elegant gentleman came forward and held up a reproving hand. The patch at the corner of his mouth quivered, and the blue eyes danced.
“I perceive that you are not acquainted with me, Mr. Warburton,” he said, amusement in his pleasant, slightly drawling voice. “Allow me to present myself: Sir Anthony Ferndale, à vous servir!”
A gleam of humour appeared in the lawyer’s own eyes as he clasped the outstretched hand.
“I think you are perhaps not acquainted with yourself, my lord,” he remarked drily.
Lord John laid his hat and cane on the small table, and looked faintly intrigued.
“What’s your meaning, Mr. Warburton?”
