a moment later the erstwhile Thomas Trotter, as fine a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of Sundays, stopped on the landing.
"Will you see if there's a taxi waiting, Cricklewick?" he said. "Moody telephoned for one a few minutes ago. I'll be down in a second, Jane dear."
He dashed back up the stairs.
"Officer O'Flaherty!" called out Mr. McFaddan, in a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step downstairs and see if Lord Temple's taxi's outside?"
"What'll we do with this gazabo, Mr. McFaddan?"
"Was—is that man—that chauffeur—was that Lord Temple?" sputtered Stuyvesant.
"Yes, it was," snapped McFaddan. "And ye'd better be careful how ye speak of your betters. Now, clear out. I wouldn't have Lady Jane Thorne know I lied to her for anything in the world."
"Lied? Lied about what?"
"When I said ye were a decent night-watchman," said McFaddan.
Stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street, puzzled and sick at heart.
He paused irresolutely just outside the entrance. If they were really the Lord Temple and the Lady Jane Thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau at City Hall had provided a small sensation for the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let them see that he was ready and willing to forget and forgive—
"Move on, now! Get a move, you!" ordered O'Flaherty, giving him a shove.
