There were so
many knives and forks and glasses on the table, such a deal of food that
was absolutely strange to him. The butler behind made him shiver.
Hitherto in Merritt's investigations into great houses he had fought
particularly shy of butlers and coachmen and upper servants of that
kind. The butler's sniff and his cold suggestion as to hock slightly
raised Merritt's combative spirit. And the champagne was poor, thin
stuff after all. A jorum of gin and water, or a mug of beer, was what
Merritt's soul longed for.
And what a lot of plate there was on the table and sideboard! Some of it
was gold, too. Merritt's greedy professional eye appraised the collection
at some hundreds of pounds--hundreds of pounds--that is, after the stuff
had been disposed of. In imagination he had already drugged the butler
and was stuffing the plate into his bag.
Henson said very little. He was too busily engaged in watching his
confederate. He wished from the bottom of his heart now that Chris had
never seen Merritt. She was smiling at him now and apparently hanging on
every word. Henson had seen society ladies doing this kind of thing
before with well-concealed contempt.
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