Sir Percy Blakeney had not gone out fortunately: the lacquey who opened the door to my lord Tony stared astonished and almost paralyzed for the moment at the extraordinary appearance of his lordship. Rain dropped down from the brim of his hat on to his shoulders: his boots were muddy to the knees, his clothes wringing wet. His eyes were wild and hazy and there was a curious tremor round his mouth. The lacquey declared with a knowing wink afterwards that his lordship must ‘ave been drinkin’! But at the moment his sense of duty urged him to show my lord—who was his master’s friend–into the library, whatever condition he was in. He took his dripping coat and hat from him and marshalled him across the large, square hall. Sir Percy Blakeney was sitting at his desk, writing, when Lord Tony was shown in. He looked up and at once rose and went to his friend. ‘Sit down, Tony,’ he said quietly, ‘while I get you some brandy.’ He forced the young man down gently into a chair in front of the fire and threw another log into the blaze.
