The Seraph had never seen the man in his life that he knew of, but he was himself naturally frank, affable, courteous, and never given to hedging himself behind the pale of his high rank; provided you did not bore him, you might always get access to him easily enough--the Duke used to tell him, too easily.
Therefore, when Ezra Baroni deferentially approached with, "The Most Noble the Marquis of Rockingham, I think ?" the Seraph, instead of leaving the stranger there discomfited, nodded and paused with his inconsequent good nature; thinking how much less bosh it would be if everybody could call him, like his family and his comrades, "Rock." "That is my name," he answered.

"I do not know you.

Do you want anything of me ?" The Seraph had a vivid terror of people who "wanted him," in the subscription, not the police, sense of the word; and had been the victim of frauds innumerable.
"I wished," returned Baroni respectfully, but with sufficient independence to conciliate his auditor, whom he saw at a glance cringing subservience would disgust, "to have the opportunity of asking your lordship a very simple question." The Seraph looked a little bored, a little amused.
"Well, ask it, my good fellow; you have your opportunity!" he said impatiently, yet good-humored still.
"Then would you, my lord," continued the Jew with his strong Hebrew-German accent, "be so good as to favor me by saying whether this signature be your own ?" The Jew held before him a folded paper, so folded that one line only was visible, across which was dashed in bold characters, "Rockingham." The Seraph put up his eye-glass, stopped, and took a steadfast look; then shook his head.
"No; that is not mine; at least, I think not.

Never made my R half a quarter so well in my life." "Many thanks, my lord," said Baroni quietly.

"One question more and we can substantiate the fact.