“No. You are marvellous. My breeches. Thanks.”

He shed his satin small-clothes, and proceeded to enter into white buckskins. “Not those boots, Jim, the other pair.” He leaned against the table as he spoke, drumming his fingers on a chair-back.

A knock fell on the door, at which he frowned and signed to Jim, who walked across and opened it, slightly.

“Is your master here?” inquired a well-known voice, and at the sound of it my lord’s face lighted up, and Salter stood aside.

“Come in, Miles!”

The big Irishman complied and cast a swift glance round the disordered room. He raised his eyebrows at sight of Jack’s riding boots and looked inquiringly across at him.

My lord pushed a chair forward with his foot.

“Sit down, man! I thought you were in London?”