And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. ‘Please to sit, monsieur. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. They took their places at a distant table.
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