“You had better go elsewhere.”
“We don’t wish to be disturbed; we are all friends here.”
“So I perceive,” said the stranger, coolly; “and I’m the last man in the wide world to make you enemies.”
He was cloaked, and wore his hat over his eyes. A strongly-built, elegant-looking gentleman he was, with pale face, fine eyes, and a dashing moustache.
His hands were remarkably white, but he seemed to have the strength of a vice in them.
He took a chair, and drew up to the fire.
“That chair belongs to one of our party, sir,” said Faulkner.
“Then let him get another,” said the new arrival, very coolly. “Waiter, bring me a bottle of wine, and call the landlord. I wish to speak to him.”
Nat brought the wine.
The stranger sipped it, threw a sovereign to the waiter in a careless manner, saying—