No, no, we must find other ways to fight him."
"And why is he here?"
"Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in
my hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
debutante of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the
Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters --
imprudent, Watson, nothing worse -- which were written to an
impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commis-
sioned to meet him, and -- to make the best terms I can."
At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in
a shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in
the room.
Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly
from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses.
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