young woman throwed at him? Why nowheres! Not a trace of it to be seen, which I looked for it particular; and yet that cut wasn't one to leave a scar that would wear out in six months, nor yet in six years either. I've had my face scratched myself, though I'm a single man, and I know what that is to last, and the awkwardness one has to go through in saying one's been playing with spiteful kittens, and such-like. But what's that to a cut half a inch deep from the sharp edge of a sovering? If I could but get to see his forehead. The cut was just over his eyebrow, and I could see the mark of it with his hat on."
While Mr. Peters abandons himself to such reflections as these, the cab drives on and follows the Count de Marolles down Ludgate Hill, through Fleet Street and the Strand, Charing Cross and Pall Mall, St. James's Street and Piccadilly, till it comes up with him at the corner of Park Lane.
"This," says Mr. Peters, "is where the swells live. Very likely he hangs out here; he's a-ridin' as if he was goin' to stop presently, so we'll get out." Whereupon the "fondling" interprets to the cabman Mr. Peters's wish to that effect, and they alight from the vehicle.
The detective's surmise is correct. The Count stops, gets off his horse, and throws the reins to the groom. It happens at this very moment that an open carriage, in which two ladies are seated, passes on its way to the Grosvenor Gate. One of the ladies bows to the South-American banker, and as he lifts his hat in returning her salute, Mr. Peters, who is looking at nothing particular, sees very distinctly the scar which is the sole memorial of that public-house encounter on the banks of the Sloshy.
As Raymond throws the reins to the groom he says, "I shall not ride again to-day, Curtis. Tell Morgan to have the Countess's carriage at the door at eight for the opera."
Mr. Peters, who doesn't seem to be a person blest with the faculty of hearing, but who is, to all appearance, busily engaged in drawing the attention of the "fondling" to the architectural beauties of Grosvenor Gate, may nevertheless take due note of this remark.
The elegant banker ascends the steps of his house, at the hall-door of which stand gorgeous and obsequious flunkeys, whose liveries and legs alike fill with admiration the juvenile mind of the "fondling."
Mr. Peters is very grave for some time, as they walk away; but at last, when they have got halfway down Piccadilly, he has recourse once more to his fingers, and addresses his young friend thus:
"What did you think of him, Slosh?"
"Which," says the "fondling;" "the cove in the red velvet breeches as opened the door, or the swell ghost?"
