One of them wore a ragged bob-wig--the cast-off, no doubt, of some gentleman's gentleman, fished out of the sixpenny tub in Rosemary Lane; it was ill-fitting, and wisps of the fellow's own unkempt hair hung out in places.

The other wore no wig at all; his yellow thatch fell in streaks from under his shabby hat, which he had the ill-manners to retain until Lord Ostermore knocked it from his head with a blow of his cane.

Both were fierily bottle-nosed, and neither appeared to have shaved for a week or so.
"Now," quoth Mr.Green, "will you hand them over of your own accord, or must I have you searched ?" And a wave of the hand towards the advancing myrmidons indicated the searchers.
"You go too far, sir," blustered the earl.
"Ay, surely," put in Mr.Caryll.

"You are mad to think a gentleman is to submit to being searched by any knave that comes to him with a cock-and-bull tale about the Secretary of State." Mr.Green leered again, and produced a paper.

"There," said he, "is my Lord Carteret's warrant, signed and sealed." Mr.Caryll glanced over it with a disdainful eye.