It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. “What the hell. I shan't let you off a farthing. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush.
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