‘What did you do with the girl?’ asked Barndale.
‘Took her home. The Bloke who had such strong objections to me is her sweetheart.
He’s engaged to her; but she says she hates him, and is afraid of him. She’ll be more afraid of him now than ever, and with better reason. I suppose I shall have to stop here a time, and see that she isn’t murdered. Suppose I went to that Greek sweep, Billy—I’ve got his address—and explained to him politely that it was all a mistake, and that I’m sorry I went poaching on his manor, and told him that if he liked to have a pot at me he’d be quite welcome! D’ye think that would be of any use, old man?’
‘Leave ill alone!’ said Barndale, pulling solemnly away at his pipe.
‘I can’t,’ answered Leland. ‘That cove’s likelier to murder her than not, if he hasn’t got me to murder. Look here, Billy, I’ll marry the girl.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Barndale. ‘What do you know about the girl?’
‘Lots,’ answered the imperturbable James.
‘Highly connected. Lots of tin. Character irreproachable. That elderly Bulgarian party, Kesanlyk Attar of Roses man, knew all about her. The fat Bloke aboard the boat. You know.’
‘He won’t hurt her,’ said Barndale, thinking of the Greek lover, ‘and you’re well out of it. Why should you marry the girl? There’s nothing worse than I know, is there?’
‘There’s nothing at all in it but that confounded meeting at the Concordia.’