Tony Butler
TextCHAPTER XLIII. THE MAJOR AT BADEN
“You will please to write your name there, sir,” said a clerk from behind a wooden railing to a fierce-looking little man in a frogged coat and a gold-banded cap, in the busy bank-room of Parodi at Genoa.
“And my qualities?” asked the other, haughtily.
“As you please, sir.”
The stranger took the pen, and wrote “Milo M’Caskey, Count of the two Sicilies, Knight of various orders, and Knight-postulate of St. John of Jerusalem, &c. &c.”
“Your Excellency has not added your address,” said the clerk, obsequiously.
“The Tuileries when in Paris, Zarkoe-Zeloe when in Russia. Usually incog, in England, I reside in a cottage near Osborne. When at this side of the Alps, wherever be the royal residence of the Sovereign in the city I chance to be in.” He turned to retire, and then, suddenly wheeling round, said, “Forward any letters that may come for me to my relative, who is now at the Trombetta, Turin.”
“Your Excellency has forgotten to mention his name.”
“So I have,” said he, with a careless laugh. “It is somewhat new to me to be in a town where I am unknown. Address my letters to the care of his Highness the Duke of Lauenburg-Gluckstein;” and with a little gesture of his hand to imply that he did not exact any royal honors at his departure, he strutted out of the bank and down the street.
Few met or passed without turning to remark him, such was the contrast between his stature and his gait; for while considerably below the middle size, there was an insolent pretension in his swagger, a defiant impertinence in the stare of his fiery eyes, that seemed to seek a quarrel with each that looked at him. His was indeed that sense of overflowing prosperity that, if it occasionally inclines the right-minded to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness, is just as certain to impel the men of a different stamp to feats of aggressiveness and insolence. Such was indeed his mood, and he would have hailed as the best boon of Fate the occasion for a quarrel and a duel.
The contempt he felt for the busy world that moved by, too deep in its own cares to interpret the defiance he threw around him, so elevated him that he swaggered along as if the flagway were all his own.
Was he not triumphant? What had not gone well with him? Gold in his pocket, success in a personal combat with a man so highly placed that it was a distinction to him for life to have encountered; the very peremptory order he received to quit Naples at once, was a recognition of his importance that actually overwhelmed him with delight; and he saw in the vista before him, the time when men would stop at the windows of printshops to gaze on the features of “Le fameux M’Caskey.”
There was something glorious in his self-conceit, for there was nothing he would not dare to achieve that estimation which he had already conceived of his own abilities. At the time I now speak of, there was a momentary lull in the storm of Italian politics caused by Count Cavour’s crafty negotiations with the Neapolitan Government, – negotiations solely devised to induce that false sense of security which was to end in downfall and ruin. Whether M’Caskey had any forebodings of what was to come or not, he knew well that it was not the moment for men like himself to be needed. “When the day of action comes, will come the question, ‘Where is M’Caskey?’ Meanwhile I will be off to Baden. I feel as though I ought to break the bank.”
To Baden he went. How many are there who can recall that bustling, pretentious, over-dressed little fellow, who astonished the pistol-gallery by his shooting, and drove the poor maître d’armes to the verge of despair by his skill with the rapier, and then swaggered into the play-room to take the first chair he pleased, only too happy if he could provoke any to resent it. How he frowned down the men and ogled the women; smiling blandly at the beauties that passed, as though in recognition of charms their owners might well feel proud of, for they had captivated a M’Caskey!
How sumptuous, too, his dinner; how rare and curious his wines; how obsequious were they who waited on him; what peril impended over the man that asked to be served before him!
Strong men, – men in all the vigor of their youth and strength, – men of honor and men of tried courage, passed and repassed, looked at, but never dreamed of provoking him. Absurd as he was in dress, ridiculous in his overweening pretension, not one ventured on the open sneer at what each in his secret heart despised for its vulgar insolence. And what a testimony to pluck was there in all this! for to what other quality in such a man’s nature had the world consented to have paid homage?
Not one of those who made way for him would have stooped to know him. There was not a man of those who controlled his gravity to respect a degree of absurdity actually laughable, who would have accepted his acquaintance at any price; and yet, for all that, he moved amongst them there, exacting every deference that was accorded to the highest, and undeniably inferior to none about him.
What becomes of the cant that classes the courage of men with the instincts of the lowest brutes in presence of a fact like this? or must we not frankly own that in the respect paid to personal daring we read the avowal that, however constituted men may be, courage is a quality that all must reverence?
Not meeting with the resistance he had half hoped for, denied none of the claims he preferred, M’Caskey became bland and courteous. He vouchsafed a nod to the croupier at the play-table, and manifested, by a graceful gesture as he took his seat, that the company need not rise as he deigned to join them..
In little more than a week after his arrival he had become famous; he was splendid, too, in his largesses to waiters and lackeys; and it is a problem that might be somewhat of a puzzle to resolve, how far the sentiments of the very lowest class can permeate the rank above them, and make themselves felt in the very highest; for this very estimation, thus originating, grew at last to be at least partially entertained by others of a very superior station. It was then that men discussed with each other who was this strange Count, – of what nation? Five modern languages had he been heard to talk in, without a flaw even of accent. What country he served? Whence and what his resources? It was when newspaper correspondents began vaguely to hint at an interesting stranger, whose skill in every weapon was only equalled by his success at play, &c, that he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but not without leaving ample matter for wonder in the telegraphic despatch he sent off a few hours before starting, and which, in some form more or less garbled, was currently talked of in society. It was addressed to M. Mocquard, Tuileries, Paris, and in these words: “Tell E. I shall meet him at the Compiègne on Saturday.”
Could anything be more delightfully intimate? While the crafty idlers of Baden were puzzling their heads as to who he might be who could thus write to an imperial secretary, the writer was travelling at all speed through Switzerland, but so totally disguised in appearance that not even the eye of a detective could have discovered in the dark-haired, black-bearded, and sedate-looking Colonel Chamberlayne the fiery-faced and irascible Count M’Caskey.
A very brief telegram in a cipher well known to him was the cause of his sudden departure. It ran thus: “Wanted at Chambéry in all haste.” And at Chambéry, at the Golden Lamb, did he arrive with a speed which few save himself knew how to compass. Scarcely had he entered the arched doorway of the inn, than a traveller, preceded by his luggage, met him. They bowed, as people do who encounter in a passage, but without acquaintance; and yet in that brief courtesy the stranger had time to slip a letter into M’Cas-key’s hand, who passed in with all the ease and unconcern imaginable. Having ordered dinner, he went to his room to dress, and then, locking his door, he read: —
“The Cabinet courier of the English Government will pass Chambéry on the night of Saturday the 18th, or on the morning of Sunday the 19th. He will be the bearer of three despatch-bags, two large and one small one, bearing the letters F. O. and the number 18 on it. You are to possess yourself of this, if possible – the larger bags are not required. If you succeed, make for Naples by whatever route you deem best and speediest, bearing in mind that the loss may possibly be known at Turin within a brief space.
“If the contents be as suspected, and all goes well, you are a made man.
“C. C.”
M’Caskey read this over three several times, dwelling each time on the same places, and then he arose and walked leisurely up and down the room. He then took out his guide-book and saw that a train started for St. Jean de Maurienne at six, arriving at eight, – a short train, not in correspondence with any other; and as the railroad ended there, the remainder of the journey, including the passage of Mont Cenis, must be performed by carriage. Of course, it was in this short interval the feat must be accomplished, if at all.
The waiter announced “his Excellency’s” dinner while he thus cogitated, and he descended and dined heartily; he even ordered a bottle of very rare chambertin, which stood at eighteen francs in the carte. He sipped his wine at his ease; he had full an hour before the train started, and he had time for reflection as well as enjoyment.
“You are to possess yourself of this,” muttered he, reading from a turned-down part of the note. “Had you been writing to any other man in Europe, Signor Conte Caffarelli, you would have been profuse enough of your directions; you would have said, ‘You are to shoot this fellow; you are to waylay him; you are to have him attacked and come to his rescue,’ and a-score more of such-like contrivances; but – to me – to me – there was none of this. It was just as Buonaparte said to Desaix at Marengo, ‘Ride through the centre,’ – he never added how. A made man! I should think so! The man has been made some years since, sir. Another bottle, waiter, and mind that it be not shaken. Who was it – I can’t remember – stopped a Russian courier with despatches for Constantinople? Ay, to be sure, it was Long Wellesley; he told me the story himself. It was a clumsy trick, too; he upset his sledge in the snow, and made off with the bags, and got great credit for the feat at home.”
“The train will start in a quarter of an hour, sir,” said the waiter.
“Not if I am not ready, my good fellow,” said the Major, – “though now I see nothing to detain me, and I will go.”
Alone in his first-class, he had leisure to think over his plans. Much depended on who might be the courier. He knew most of them well, and speculated on the peculiar traits of this or that. “If it be Bromley, he will have his own calèche; Airlie will be for the cheap thing, and take the diligence; and Poynder will be on the look-out for some one to join him, and pay half the post-horses and all the postilions. There are half a dozen more of these fellows on this ‘dodge,’ but I defy the craftiest of them to know me now;” and he took out a little pocket-glass, and gazed complacently at his features. “Colonel Moore Chamberlayne, A.D.C., on his way to Corfu, with despatches for the Lord High Commissioner. A very soldierlike fellow, too,” added he, arranging his whiskers, “but, I shrewdly suspect, a bit of a Tartar. Yes, that’s the ticket,” added he, with a smile at his image in the glass, – “despatches of great importance for Storks at Corfu.”
Arrived at St Jean, he learned that the mail train from France did not arrive until 11.20, ample time for all his arrangements. He also learned that the last English messenger had left his calèche at Susa, and, except one light carriage with room for only two, there was nothing on that side of the mountain but the diligence. This conveyance he at once secured, ordering the postilion to be in the saddle and ready to start, if necessary, when the mail train came in. “It is just possible,” said he, “that the friend I am expecting may not arrive, in which case I shall await the next train; but if he comes you must drive your best, my man, for I shall want to catch the first train for Susa in the morning.” Saying this, he retired to his room, where he had many things to do, – so many, indeed, that he had but just completed them when the shriek of the engine announced that the train was coming; the minute after, the long line dashed into the station and came to a stand.
CHAPTER XLIV. THE MESSENGER’S FIRST JOURNEY
As the train glided smoothly into the station, M’Caskey passed down the platform, peering into each carriage as if in search of an unexpected friend. “Not come,” muttered he, in a voice of displeasure, loud enough to be heard by the solitary first-class passenger, who soon after emerged with some enormous bags of white linen massively sealed, and bearing addresses in parchment.
“I beg pardon,” said M’Caskey, approaching and touching his hat in salute. “Are you with despatches?”
“Yes,” said the other, in some astonishment at the question.
“Have you a bag for me?” and then suddenly correcting himself with a little smile at the error of his supposing he must be universally known, added, “I mean for the Hon. Colonel Chamberlayne.”
“I have nothing that is not addressed to a legation,” said the other, trying to pass on.
“Strange! they said I should receive some further instructions by the first messenger. Sorry to have detained you, – good-evening.”
The young man – for he was young – was already too deep in an attempt to inquire in French after a carriage, to hear the last words, and continued to ask various inattentive bystanders certain questions about a calèche that ought to have been left by somebody in somebody’s care for the use of somebody else.
“Is it true, can you tell me?” said he, running after M’Caskey. “They say that there is no conveyance here over the mountain except the diligence.”
“I believe it is quite true,” said the “Colonel,” gravely.
“And they say, too, that the diligence never, at this season, arrives in time to catch the early train at – I forget the place.”
“At Susa?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“They are perfectly correct in all that; and knowing it so well, and as my despatches are urgent, I sent on my own light carriage here from Geneva.”
“And have you despatches too?” asked the other, whom we may as well announce to the reader as Tony Butler. “Have you despatches too?” cried he, in great delight at meeting something like a colleague.
“Yes; I take out orders for the Lord High Commissioner to Corfu. I am the head of the Staff there.”
Tony bowed in recognition of the announced rank, and said quietly: “My name is Butler. I am rather new to this sort of thing, and never crossed the Alps in my life.”
“I ‘ll give you a lift, then, for I have a spare place. My servant has gone round with my heavy baggage by Trieste, and I have a seat to spare.”
“This is most kind of you, but I scarcely dare put you to such inconvenience.”
“Don’t talk of that. We are all in the same boat. It ‘s my luck to have this offer to-day; it will be yours tomorrow. What ‘s your destination?”
“First Turin, then Naples; but I believe I shall have no delay at Turin, and the Naples bags are the most urgent ones.”
“Is there anything going on down there, then?” asked M’Caskey, carelessly.
“I suspect there must be, for three of our fellows have been sent there, – I am the fourth within a fortnight.”
“A country that never interested me. Take a cigar. Are you ready, or do you want to eat something?”
“No, I am quite ready, and only anxious not to be late for this first train. The fact is, it’s all a new sort of life to me, and as I am a wretchedly bad Frenchman, I don’t get on too well.”
“The great secret is, be peremptory, never listen to excuses, tolerate no explanations. That’s my plan. I pay liberally, but I insist on having what I want.”
They were now seated, and dashing along at all the speed and with all the noise of four wiry posters, and M’Caskey went on to describe how, with that system of united despotism and munificence, he had travelled over the whole globe with success. As for the anecdotes he told, they embraced every land and sea; and there was scarcely an event of momentous importance of the last quarter of a century of which he had not some curious private details. He was the first man to discover the plans of Russia on the Pruth. It was he found out Louis Philippe’s intrigue about the Spanish marriages. “If you feel interest in this sort of thing,” said he, carelessly, “just tell the fellows at home to show you the blue-book with Chamberlayne’s correspondence. It is private and confidential; but, as a friend of mine, you can see it” And what generosity of character he had! he had let Seymour carry off all the credit of that detection of Russia. “To be sure,” added he, “one can’t forget old times, and Seymour was my fag at Eton.” It was he, too, counselled Lord Elgin to send off the troops from China to Calcutta to assist in repressing the mutiny. “Elgin hesitated; he could n’t make up his mind; he thought this at one moment and that the next; and he sent for me at last, and said, ‘George, I want a bit of advice from you.’ ‘I know what you mean,’ said I, stopping him; ‘send every man of them, – don’t hold back a drummer.’ I will say,” he added, “he had the honesty to own from whom he got that counsel, and he was greatly provoked when he found I could not be included in the vote of thanks of the House. ‘Confound their etiquette,’ said he; ‘it is due to George, and he ought to have it.’ You don’t know why I ‘m in such haste to Corfu now?”
“I have not the faintest notion.”
“I will tell you: first, because a man can always trust a gentleman; secondly, it will be matter of table-talk by the time you get back. The Tories are in need of the Radicals, and to buy their support intend to offer the throne of Greece, which will be vacant whenever we like, to Richard Cobden.”
“How strange! and would he accept it?”
“Some say no; I say yes; and Louis Napoleon, who knows men thoroughly, agrees with me. ‘Mon cher Cham,’ – he always called me Cham, – ‘talk as people will, it is a very pleasant thing to sit on a throne, and it goes far towards one’s enjoyment of life to have so many people employed all day long to make it agreeable.’” If Tony thought at times that his friend was a little vainglorious, he ascribed it to the fact that any man so intimate with the great people of the world, talking of them as his ordinary every-day acquaintances, might reasonably appear such to one as much removed from all such intercourse as he himself was. That the man who could say, “Nesselrode, don’t tell me,” or “Rechberg, my good fellow, you are in error there!” should be now sitting beside him, sharing his sandwich with him, and giving him to drink from his sherry-flask; was not that glory enough to turn a stronger head than poor Tony’s? Ah, my good reader, I know well that you would not have been caught by such blandishments. You have “seen men and cities.” You have been at courts, dined beside royalties, and been smiled on by serene highnesses; but Tony has not had your training; he has had none of these experiences; he has heard of great names just as he has heard of great victories. The illustrious people of the earth are no more within the reach of his estimation than are the jewels of a Mogul’s turban; but it is all the more fascinating to him to sit beside one who “knows it all.”
Little wonder, then, if time sped rapidly, and that he never knew weariness. Let him start what theme he might, speak of what land, what event, what person he pleased, the Colonel was ready for him. It was marvellous, indeed, – so very marvellous that to a suspicious mind it might have occasioned distrust, – with how many great men he had been at school, what shoals of distinguished fellows he had served with. With a subtle flattery, too, he let drop the remark that he was not usually given to be so frank and communicative. “The fact is,” said he, “young men are, for the most part, bad listeners to the experiences of men of my age; they fancy that they know life as well, if not better, than ourselves, and that our views are those of ‘bygones.’ You, however, showed none of this spirit; you were willing to hear and to learn from one of whom it would be false modesty were I not to say, Few know more of men and their doings.”
Now Tony liked this appreciation of him, and he said to himself, “He is a clever fellow, – not a doubt of it; he never saw me till this evening, and yet he knows me thoroughly well.” Seeing how the Colonel had met with everybody, he resolved he would get from him his opinion of some of his own friends, and, to lead the way, asked if he was acquainted with the members of the English Legation at Turin.’
“I know Bathurst, – we were intimate,” said he; “but we once were in love with the same woman, – the mother of an empress she is now, – and as I rather ‘cut him out,’ a coldness ensued, and somehow we never resumed our old footing. As for Croker, the Secretary, it was I got him that place.”
“And Damer, – Skeff Damer, – do you know him?”
“I should think I do. I was his godfather.”
“He’s the greatest friend I have in the world!” cried Tony, in ecstasy at this happy accident.
“I made him drop Chamberlayne. It was his second name, and I was vain enough to be annoyed that it was not his first. Is he here now?”
“Yes, he is attached to the Legation, and sometimes here, sometimes at Naples.”
“Then we ‘ll make him give us a dinner to-day, for I shall refuse Bathurst: he is sure to ask me; but you will tell Darner that we are both engaged to him.”
Tony only needed to learn the tie that bound his newly made acquaintance with his dearest friend, to launch freely out about himself and his new fortunes; he told all about the hard usage his father had met with, – the services he had rendered his country in India and elsewhere, and the ungenerous requital he had met for them all. “That is why you see me here a messenger, instead of being a soldier, like all my family for seven generations back. I won’t say I like it, – that would n’t be true; but I do it because it happens to be one of the few things I can do.”
“That’s a mistake, sir,” said the Colonel, fiercely; “a mistake thousands fall into every day. A man can make of life whatever he likes, if only – mark me well – if only his will be strong enough.”
“If wishing would do it – ”
“Hold! I’m not talking of wishing; schoolboys wish, pale-cheeked freshmen at college, goggle-eyed ensigns in marching regiments wish. Men, real men, do not wish; they will, – that’s all the difference. Strong men make a promise to themselves early in life, and they feel it a point of honor to keep it. As Rose said one day in the club at Calcutta, speaking of me, ‘He has got the Bath, just because he said he would get it.’”
“The theory is a very pleasant one.”
“You can make the practice just as pleasant, if you like it. Whenever you take your next leave, – they give you leave, don’t they?”
“Yes, three months; we might have more, I believe, if we asked for it.”
“Well, come and spend your next leave with me at Corfu. You shall have some good shooting over in Albania, plenty of mess society, pleasant yachting, and you ‘ll like our old Lord High; he’s stiff and cold at first, but, introduced by me, you ‘ll be at once amongst the ‘most favored nations.’”
“I can’t thank you enough for so kind a proposal,” began Tony; but the other stopped him with, “Don’t thank me, but help me to take care of this bag. It contains the whole fate of the Levant in its inside. Those sacks of yours, – I suppose you know what they have for contents?”
“No; I have no idea what’s in them.”
“Old blue-books and newspapers, nothing else; they ‘re all make-believes, – a farce to keep up the notion that great activity prevails at the Foreign Office, and to fill up that paragraph in the newspapers, ‘Despatches were yesterday sent off to the Lord High Commissioner of the Bahamas,’ or ‘Her Majesty’s Minister at Otaheite.’ Here we are at the rail now, – that’s Susa. Be alive, for I see the smoke, and the steam must be up.”
They were just in time; the train was actually in motion when they got in, and, as the Colonel, who kept up a rapid conversation with the station-master, informed Tony, nothing would have induced them to delay but having seen himself. “They knew me,” said he; “they remembered my coming down here last autumn with the Prince de Carignan and Cavour.” And once more had Tony to thank his stars for having fallen into such companionship.
As they glided along towards Turin, the Colonel told Tony that if he found the “Weazle” gunboat at Genoa, as he expected, waiting for him, he would set him, Tony, and his despatches, down safely at Naples, as he passed on to Malta. “If it ‘s the ‘Growler,’” said he, “I ‘ll not promise you, because Hurton the commander is not in good-humor with me. I refused to recommend him the other day to the First Lord for promotion – say nothing about this to the fellows at the Legation; indeed, don’t mention anything about me, except to Damer – for the dinner, you know.”
“I suppose I ought to go straight to the Legation at once?” said Tony, as they entered Turin; “my orders are to deliver the bags before anything else.”
“Certainly; let us drive there straight, – there’s nothing like doing things regularly; I ‘m a martinet about all duty;” and so they drove to the Legation, where Tony, throwing one large sack to the porter, shouldered the other himself, and passed in.
“Holloa!” cried the Colonel; “I ‘ll give you ten minutes, and if you ‘re not down by that time, I ‘ll go off and order breakfast at the inn.”
“All right,” said Tony; “this fellow says that Darner is at Naples.”
“I knew that,” muttered the Colonel to himself; and then added aloud, “Be alive and come down as quick as you can,” – he looked at his watch as he spoke; it wanted five minutes to eight, – “at five minutes past eight the train should start for Genoa.”
He seized the small despatch-bag in his hand, and, telling the cabman to drive to the Hotel Feder and wait for him there, he made straight for the railroad. He was just in the nick; and while Tony was impatiently pacing an anteroom of the Legation, the other was already some miles on the way to Genoa.
At last a very sleepy-looking attaché, in a dressing-gown and slippers, made his appearance. “Nothing but these?” said he, yawning and pointing to the great sacks.
“No; nothing else for Turin.”
“Then why the – did you knock me up, – when it’s only a shower-bath and Greydon’s boot-trees?”
“How the – did I know what was in them?” said
Tony, as angrily.
“You must be precious green, then. When were you made?”
“When was I made?”
“Yes; when were you named a messenger?”
“Some time in spring.”
“I thought you must be an infant, or you ‘d know that it’s only the small bags are of any consequence.”
“Have you anything more to say? I want to get a bath and my breakfast”
“I ‘ve a lot more to say, and I shall have to tell Sir Joseph you ‘re here! and I shall have to sign your time bill, and to see if we have n’t got something for Naples. You ‘re for Naples, ain’t you? And I want to send Darner some cigars and a pot of caviare that’s been here these two months, and that he must have smelled from Naples.”
“Then be hasty, for heaven’s sake, for I’m starving.”
“You’re starving! How strange, and it’s only eight o’clock! Why, we don’t breakfast here till one, and I rarely eat anything.”
“So much the worse for you,” said Tony, gruffly. “My appetite is excellent, if I only had a chance to gratify it.”
“What’s the news in town, – is there anything stirring?”
“Not that I know.”
“Has Lumley engaged Teresina again?”
“Never heard of her.”
“He ought; tell him I said so. She’s fifty times better than La Gradina. Our chef here,” added he, in a whisper, “says she has better legs than Pochini.”
“I am charmed to hear it. Would you just tell him that mine are getting very tired here?”
“Will Lawson pay that handicap to George Hobart?”
Tony shook his head to imply total ignorance of all concerned.
“He needn’t, you know; at least, Saville Harris refused to book up to Whitemare on exactly the same grounds. It was just this way: here was the winning-post – no, here; that seal there was the grand stand; when the mare came up, she was second. I don’t think you care for racing, eh?”
“A steeple-chase; yes, particularly when I’m a rider. But what I care most for just now is a plunge into cold water and a good breakfast.”
There was something actually touching in the commiserating look the attaché gave Tony as he turned away and left the room. What was the public service to come to if these were the fellows to be named as messengers?
In a very few minutes he was back again in the room. “Where’s Naples?” asked he, curtly.
“Where’s Naples? Where it always was, I suppose,” said Tony, doggedly, – “in the Gulf of that name.”
“I mean the bag, – the Naples bag: it is under flying seal, and Sir Joseph wants to see the despatches.”
“Oh, that is below in the cab. I ‘ll go down and fetch it;” and without waiting for more, he hastened downstairs. The cab was gone. “Naturally enough,” thought Tony, “he got tired waiting; he’s off to order breakfast.”
He hurried upstairs again to report that a friend with whom he travelled had just driven away to the hotel with all the baggage.
“And the bags?” cried the other, in a sort of horror.
“Yes, the bags, of course; but I ‘ll go after him. What ‘s the chief hotel called?”
“The Trombetta.”
“I don’t think that was the name.”
“The Czar de Russie?”
“No, nor that”
“Perhaps Feder?”
“Yes, that’s it. Just send some one to show me the way, and I ‘ll be back immediately. I suspect my unlucky breakfast must be prorogued to luncheon-time.”
“Not a bit of it!” cried a fine, fresh-looking, handsome man, who entered the room with a riding-whip in his hand; “come in and take share of mine.”