"And have served many gentlemen in my time."
"Then you probably know London and the fashionable world?"
"Yes, sir," said the man, with a sigh.
"Now," pursued Barnabas, "I am given to understand, on the authority of a Person of Quality, that to dress properly is an art."
The fugitive nodded. "Indeed, sir, though your Person of Quality should rather have called it the greatest of all the arts."
"Why so?"
"Because by dress it is possible to make--something out of nothing!"
"Explain yourself."
"Why, there was the case of young Lord Ambleside, a nobleman remarkable for a vague stare, and seldom saying anything but 'What!' or 'Dey-vil take me!' though I'll admit he could curse almost coherently--at times. I found him nothing but a lord, and very crude material at that, yet in less than six months he was made."
"Made?"
"Made, sir," nodded the fugitive. "I began him with a cravat, an entirely original creation, which drew the approval of Brummell himself, and, consequently, took London by storm, and I continued him with a waistcoat."
"Not a--white one?" Barnabas inquired.
"No, sir, it was a delicate pink, embroidered with gold, and of quite a new cut and design, which was the means of introducing him to the notice of Royalty itself. The Prince had one copied from it, and wore it at a state reception. And I finished him with a pair of pantaloons which swept the world of fashion clean off its legs, and brought him into lasting favor with the Regent. So my Lord was made, and eventually I married him to an heiress."
"You married him?"
"That is to say, I dictated all his letters, and composed all his verses, which speedily brought the affair to a happy culmination."
"You seem to be a man of many and varied gifts?"
"And one--without a character, sir."
"Nevertheless," said Barnabas, "I think you are the very man I require."
"Sir," exclaimed the fugitive, staring, "sir?"
"And therefore," continued Barnabas, "you may consider yourself engaged."
"Engaged, sir--engaged!" stammered the man--"me?"
"As my valet," nodded Barnabas.
"But, sir, I told you--I was--a thief!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "and therefore I have great hopes of your future honesty."
Now hereupon the man, still staring, rose up to his knees, and with a swift, appealing gesture, stretched out his hands towards Barnabas, and his hands were trembling all at once.
"Sir!" said he, "oh, sir--d'ye mean it? You don't know, you can't know what such an offer means to me. Sir, you're not jesting with me?"
"No," answered Barnabas, calmly serious of eye, "no, I'm not jesting; and to prove it, here is an advance of wages." And he dropped two guineas into the man's open palm.
The man stared down at the coins in his hand, then rose abruptly to his feet and turned away, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse.
"Sir," said he, jerkily, "for such trust I would thank you, only words are too poor. But if, as I think, it is your desire to enter the World of Fashion, it becomes my duty, as an honest man, to tell you that all your efforts, all your money, would be unavailing, even though you had been introduced by Barrymore, or Hanger, or Vibart, or Brummell himself."
"Ah," said Barnabas, "and why?"
"Because you have made a fatal beginning."
"How?"
"By knocking down the Prince's friend and favorite--Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH BARNABAS PARTS COMPANY WITH THE PERSON OF QUALITY
For a long moment the two remained silent, each staring at the other, Barnabas still seated in the ditch and the man standing before him, with the coins clutched in his hand.
"Ah!" said Barnabas, at last, "then you were in the wood?"
"I lay hidden behind a bush, and watched you do it, sir."
"And what were you doing in Annersley Wood?"
"I bore a message, sir, for the lady."
"Ah!" said Barnabas, "the lady--yes."
"Who lay watching you, also."
"No," said Barnabas, "the lady was unconscious."
"Yet recovered sufficiently to adjust her habit, and to watch you knock him down."
"Hum!" said Barnabas, and was silent a while. "Have you heard such a name as Chichester?" he inquired suddenly.
"No, sir."
"And did you deliver the letter?"
"I did, sir."
"And she--sent back an answer?"
"Yes, sir."
"The gentleman who sent the letter was tall and slender, I think, with dark hair, and a scar on his cheek?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when you came back with her answer, he met you down the lane yonder, and I heard you say that the lady had no time to write."
"Yes, sir; but she promised to meet him at a place called Oakshott's Barn."
"Ah!" said Barnabas, "I think I know it."
"At sunset, sir!"
"That would be somewhere about half past seven," mused Barnabas, staring blankly, down at the book on his knee.
"Yes, sir."
"How came you to be carrying his letter?"
"He offered me five shillings to go and bring her answer."
"Did you know the lady?"
"No, sir, but he described her."
"To be sure." said Barnabas; "he mentioned her hair, perhaps?"
"Yes, sir."
"Her--eyelashes, perhaps?"
"And her eyes also, sir."
"Yes, her eyes, of course. He seemed to know her well, perhaps?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she--promised to meet him--in a very lonely place?"
"At Oakshott's Barn, sir."
Once again Barnabas stared down at his book, and was silent so long that his new servant wondered, grew fidgety, coughed, and at last spoke.
"Sir," said he, "what are your orders?"
Barnabas