“Sir Anthony Ferndale” sat before the dressing-table in his room at the White Hart, idly polishing his nails. A gorgeous silk dressing gown lay over the back of his chair, and, behind him, Jim was attending to his wig, at the same time hovering anxiously over the coat and waistcoat that were waiting to be donned.
Carstares left off polishing his nails, yawned, and leaned back in his chair, a slim, graceful figure in cambric shirt and apricot satin breeches. He studied his cravat for some moments in the mirror, and lifted a hand to it. Salter held his breath. With extreme deliberation the hand moved a diamond and emerald pin the fraction of an inch to one side, and fell to his side again. Salter drew a relieved breath, which brought his master’s eyes round to himself.
“No trouble, Jim?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Neither had I. ’Twas most surprisingly easy. The birds had no more fight in them than sparrows. Two men in a coach—one a bullying rascal of a merchant, the other his clerk. Gad! but I was sorry for that little man!” He paused, his hand on the rouge pot.
Salter looked an inquiry.
“Yes,” nodded Carstares. “Very sorry. The fat man would appear to bully and browbeat him after the manner of his kind; he even blamed him for my advent, the greasy coward! Yes, Jim, you are right—he did not appeal to me, ce M. Fudby. So—”
