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Marshall, with your permission I should like a word with Mr. Sturgis." "Mr. Who?" The gimlet-eyed sportsman came forward. "I am Denman Sturgis, at your service." "The deuce you are! What are you doing here?" "Mr. Sturgis," explained the Count, "graciously volunteered his services " "I know. But what's he doing here?" "I am waiting for Mr. George Lattaker, Mr. Marshall." "Eh?"
I think one of the rummiest affairs I was ever mixed up with, in the course of a lifetime devoted to butting into other people's business, was that affair of George Lattaker at Monte Carlo. I wouldn't bore you, don't you know, for the world, but I think you ought to hear about it. We had come to Monte Carlo on the yacht Circe, belonging to an old sportsman of the name of Marshall.
It was all dashed romantic, don't you know, but there are limits. "Voules, you're sacked," I said. "Who cares?" he said. "Think I was going to stop on now I'm a gentleman of property? Come along, Emma, my dear. Give a month's notice and get your 'at, and I'll take you to dinner at Ciro's." "And you, Mr. Lattaker," said the Count, "may I conduct you to the presence of my high-born master?
"You have not found him?" asked the Count anxiously. "Not yet, Count; but I hope to do so shortly. I know what he looks like now. This gentleman is his twin-brother. They are doubles." "You are sure this gentleman is not Mr. George Lattaker?" George put his foot down firmly on the suggestion. "Don't go mixing me up with my brother," he said. "I am Alfred. You can tell me by my mole."
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