From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton. "Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one in it, I believe?" "No, sir." "You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you understand." "Very good, sir." "Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene.
When he went upstairs to his own bedroom, in Piccadilly, about five o'clock, therefore, he was both sleepy and tired, and lamented to that cherished and ever-discreet confidant, a cheroot, the brutal demands of the Service; which would drag him off, in five hours' time, without the slightest regard to his feelings, to take share in the hot, heavy, dusty, searching work of a field-day up at the Scrubs.