Eyes followed him when he left the card-room, for he was one who
inspired in other men a kind of admiration--none could say exactly why.
Many quite as noted for general good sportsmanship attracted no such
attention. Was it "style," or was it the streak of something not quite
typical--the brand left on him by the past?
Abandoning the club, he walked slowly along the railings of Piccadilly
towards home, that house in Bury Street, St. James's, which had been his
London abode since he was quite young--one of the few in the street
that had been left untouched by the general passion for puffing down and
building up, which had spoiled half London in his opinion.
A man, more silent than anything on earth, with the soft, quick, dark
eyes of a woodcock and a long, greenish, knitted waistcoat, black
cutaway, and tight trousers strapped over his boots, opened the door.
"I shan't go out again, Markey. Mrs. Markey must give me some dinner.
Anything'll do."
Markey signalled that he had heard, and those brown eyes under eyebrows
meeting and forming one long, dark line, took his master in from head
to heel. He had already nodded last night, when his wife had said the
gov'nor would take it hard. Retiring to the back premises, he jerked his
head toward the street and made a motion upward with his hand, by which
Mrs. Markey, an astute woman, understood that she had to go out and shop
because the gov'nor was dining in.
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