“Shall I prepare your bath, sir?” asked Joseph, stationed in a supple attitude by the side of the bed.

Edward Henry was visited by an idea.

“Have you had yours?” he demanded like a pistol-shot.

Edward Henry saw that Sir Nicholas had never asked that particular question.

“No, sir.”

“Not had your bath, man!  What on earth do you mean by it?  Go and have your bath at once!”

A faint sycophantic smile lightened the amazed features of Joseph.  And Edward Henry thought:  “It’s astonishing, all the same, the way they can read their masters.  This chap has seen already that I’m a card.  And yet how?”

“Yes, sir,” said Joseph.

“Have your bath in the bathroom here.  And be sure to leave everything in order for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as Joseph had gone Edward Henry jumped out of bed and listened.  He heard the discreet Joseph respectfully push the bolt of the bathroom door.  Then he crept with noiseless rapidity to the small bedroom and was aware therein of a lack of order and of ventilation.  The rich and distinguished overcoat was hanging on the brass knob at the foot of the bed.  He seized it, and, scrutinizing the loop, read in yellow letters:  “Quayther & Cuthering, 47 Vigo Street, W.”  He knew that Quayther & Cuthering must be the tailors of Sir Nicholas Winkworth, and hence first-class.

Hoping for the best, and putting his trust in the general decency of human nature, he did not trouble himself with the problem:  was the overcoat a gift or an appropriation?  But he preferred to assume the generosity of Sir Nicholas rather than the dishonesty of Joseph.

Repassing the bathroom door he knocked loudly on its glass.

“Don’t be all day!” he cried.  He was in a hurry now.

An hour later he said to Joseph: 

“I’m going down to Quayther & Cuthering’s.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joseph, obviously much reassured.

“Nincompoop!” Edward Henry exclaimed secretly.  “The fool thinks better of me because my tailors are first-class.”

But Edward Henry had failed to notice that he himself was thinking better of himself because he had adopted first-class tailors.

Beneath the main door of his suite, as he went forth, he found a business card of the West End Electric Brougham Supply Agency.  And downstairs, solely to impress his individuality on the hall-porter, he showed the card to that vizier with the casual question: 

“These people any good?”

“An excellent firm, sir.”

“What do they charge?”

“By the week, sir?”

He hesitated.  “Yes, by the week.”

“Twenty guineas, sir.”

“Well, you might telephone for one.  Can you get it at once?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The vizier turned towards the telephone in his lair.

“I say—­” said Edward Henry.