“I will let you in. A twitch of treachery, and you get a bullet in your brain.”
“Mr. Tuke—you can trust me!”
He inside unhitched the fastenings—snapped key and bolts. “Cover him, Will,” he said, and swung open the door.
Mr. Fern walked in with a very humble obeisance. A white down of many days’ growth bristled villainously on his chin. He looked battered and unkempt, but not ill-nourished for a starving man.
The door re-locked and made secure: “Go before into that room,” said Tuke, “and remember that you tread on glass, sir.”
“I make no protest, Mr. Tuke. I assume your action guarantees me a safe-conduct, and that the fact that the muzzle of your servant’s piece actually touches my head argues no base intent on his part.”
“He is fairly efficient with his weapon, sir. I warn you he answers to the prick of discipline. Shoot this man at sight, William, if he attempts to move.”
He had signed to the smooth ruffian to stand with his back against the table.
“Sir,” said Fern, “will you not hear me speak?”
“Before witnesses, fellow. Believe me, I’ve had enough of your sole company to serve me a lifetime.”