“So do most of the people who belong to—the people to whom prisons are not strange, Lord Lynborough.”
“Apostles—and so on?” asked Lynborough airily.
“I hardly recognise your lordship as belonging to that—er—er—category.”
“That’s the worst of it—nobody will,” Lynborough admitted candidly. A note of sincere, if whimsical, regret sounded in his voice. “I’ve been trying for fifteen years. Yet some day I may be known as St Ambrose!” His tones fell to despondency again. “St Ambrose the Less, though—yes, I’m afraid the Less. Apostles—even Saints—are much handicapped in these days, Mr Stillford.”
Stillford rose to his feet. “You’ve no more to say to me, Lord Lynborough?”
“I don’t know that I ever had anything to say to you, Mr Stillford. You must have gathered before now that I intend to use Beach Path.”
“My client intends to prevent you.”
“Yes?—Well, you’re three able-bodied men down there—so my man tells me—you, and the Colonel, and the Captain. And we’re three up here. It seems to me fair enough.”
“You don’t really contemplate settling the matter by personal conflict?” He was half amused, yet genuinely stricken in his habits of thought.
“Entirely a question for your side. We shall use the path.” Lynborough cocked his head on one side, looking up at the sturdy lawyer with a mischievous amusement. “I shall harry you, Mr Stillford—day and night I shall harry you. If you mean to keep me off that path, vigils will be your portion. And you won’t succeed.”