Grafton sent him away; he felt that the police could not have suspected. He went to the hotel and in the smoking-room, near the entrance, found the American youth. Grafton dropped into a seat beside him. “Thank you,” he said. “May I ask who has done me this great service?”
“My name is Burroughs; I come from San Francisco.”
They discovered that they had many acquaintances and a few friends in common, and both belonged to the same club in New York. Burroughs, who was seven or eight years younger than Grafton, and just out of college, had often heard of him.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Grafton. “Since I saw you I’ve engaged to fight a duel at three to-morrow morning, and I need a second.”
“I’d be pleased if you’d accept me, though I’ve had no experience.”
“But I warn you that it may be an ugly business before it’s ended, though I think I can arrange to get you out of it. I mean to kill my man and his death’ll make a row in this part of the world.”
“I’ll see you through,” said Burroughs.
Grafton took him to his rooms, and, having tested him thoroughly, gave him his entire confidence. When he had finished the story, Burroughs said: “I feel that you’re going to win out.” His eyes were sparkling with excitement. “But don’t kill him; remember, he’s her cousin. She might balk at marrying you if you’d killed her cousin.”
Grafton thought for a few minutes. “That gives me an idea—that remark of yours. We’ll talk it over to-night.”