“Ha! What's this? A bill! A bill for snuff! My Lord Carteret'll snuff you, sir. He'll tobacco you, ecod! He'll smoke you first, and snuff you afterwards.” He flung the bill aside. “Phew!” he whistled. “Verses! 'To Theocritus upon sailing for Albion.' That's mighty choice! D'ye write verses, sir?” “Heyday! 'Tis an occupation to which I have succumbed in moments of weakness. I crave your indulgence, Mr. Green.” Mr. Green perceived that here was a weak attempt at irony, and went on with his investigations. He came to the last of the papers Mr. Caryll had handed him, glanced at it, swore coarsely, and dropped it. “D'ye think ye can bubble me?'” he cried, red in the face. Lord Ostermore heaved a sigh of relief; the hard look had faded from Hortensia's eyes. “What is't ye mean, giving me this rubbish?” “I offer you my excuses for the contents of my pockets,” said Mr. Caryll. “Ye see, I did not expect to be honored by your inquisition. Had I but known--” Mr. Green struck an attitude. “Now attend to me, sir! I am a servant of His Majesty's Government.” “His Majesty's Government cannot be sufficiently congratulated,” said Mr. Caryll, the irrepressible. Mr. Green banged the table. “Are ye rallying me, ecod!” “You have upset the ink,” Mr. Caryll pointed out to him. “Damn the ink!” swore the spy. “And damn you for a Tom o' Bedlam! I ask you again--what d'ye mean, giving me this rubbish?” “You asked me to turn out my pockets.” “I asked you for the letter ye have brought Lord Ostermore.” “I am sorry,” said Mr. Caryll, and eyed the other sympathetically. “I am sorry to disappoint you. But, then, you assumed too much when you assumed that I had such a letter. I have obliged you to the fullest extent in my power. I do not think you show a becoming gratitude.” Mr. Green eyed him blankly a moment; then exploded. “Ecod, sir! You are cool.” “It is a condition we do not appear to share.” “D'ye say ye've brought his lordship no letter from France?” thundered the spy. “What else ha' ye come to England for?” “To study manners, sir,” said Mr. Caryll, bowing. That was the last drop in the cup of Mr. Green's endurance. He waved his men towards the gentleman from France. “Find it,” he bade them shortly. Mr. Caryll drew himself up with a great dignity, and waved the bailiffs back, his white face set, an unpleasant glimmer in his eyes. “A moment!” he cried. “You have no authority to go to such extremes. I make no objection to being searched; but every objection to being soiled, and I'll not have the fingers of these scavengers about my person.” “And you are right, egad!” cried Lord Ostermore, advancing. “Harkee, you dirty spy, this is no way to deal with gentlemen. Be off, now, and take your carrion-crows with you, or I'll have my grooms in with their whips to you.” “To me?” roared Green. “I represent the Secretary of State.”