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“Get me a tooth brush—a new one,” said Jones, brusquely, almost brutally. “Get it quick.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He dropped the shirt and left the room swiftly, but not hurriedly, taking care to close the door softly behind him.

It was the first indication to Jones of a method so complete and a mechanism so perfectly constituted, that jolts were all but eliminated.

“I believe if I’d asked that guy for an elephant,” he said to himself, “he’d have acted just the same—do they keep a drug store on the premises?”

They evidently kept a store of tooth brushes, for in less than a minute and a half Expedition had returned with the tooth brush on a little lacquered tray.

Now, to a man accustomed to dress himself it comes as a shock to have his underpants held out for him to get into as though he were a little boy.

This happened to Jones—and they were pink silk.

A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely new were presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on his own socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put on his own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe horn and button hook in hand.