A sojourn in one of those human hells was one possible result for me; and the other was even more distasteful—that a sufficiently grave view might be taken of the case to have me ordered out of the country.
I was railing at my ill-luck in ever having learnt the facts which threatened one of these alternatives, when the murmurs of many voices started below in the house swelled as it came up the stairs and culminated in a chorus of threats and groans and curses just outside as the door was opened and a man was thrust violently into the room and went staggering across the floor.
He had been in the wars. His clothes were all disordered, his collar was flying loose, his coat was torn, and he had the crumpled look which a man is apt to have at two o’clock in the morning after a night on the general rampage finished up with a scrimmage with the police.
His first act was inspired by the sheer stupidity of rage. He turned and shook his fists at the door and swore copiously. He had quite a natural gift for cursing, and gave free vent to it. Then he began to put his clothes straight and saw me for the first time.
“Hallo, you here?”
“Yes.” Both question and answer sounded a little superfluous under the circumstances, but it turned out that he recognized me.
“Did they want you?” He swore again as he recalled his own experiences.
“Who?”
“Those infernal brutes out there?”
“Do you mean the police?”