Those quick cat-like glances over his
shoulder were not reassuring. Dark, swarthy; and yet that odd white
scar in the scalp above his ear. That ought to have been dark,
logically.
"What is it?"
"Lord Monckton has dropped his glass somewhere, sir, and he sent me to
inquire, sir."
"Oh, here it is. And tell your master to be very careful of it. Some
one might step on it."
"Thank you, sir." The valet departed as noiselessly as he had entered.
"Really," mused Thomas, "there's a rum chap. I don't like him around.
He gives me the what-d'-y'-call-it."
They needed an extra man at the table that night, so Thomas came down.
He found himself between two jolly young women, opposite Kitty who
divided her time between Lord Monckton and a young millionaire who,
rumor bruited it, was very attentive to Killigrew's daughter. Still,
Thomas enjoyed himself. Nobody seemed to mind that he was only a clerk
in the house. The simpleton did not realize that he was a personage to
these people; an English private secretary, quite a social stroke on
the part of the Killigrews.
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