"Spoil the whole show?" Mr. Bundercombe objected earnestly. "Just play the part of assistant audience and stick this into your pocket, will you?"
He threw toward me a very small revolver that he had produced from a drawer.
"Only the last three chambers are loaded," he remarked. "You'll have to click three times if you do use it. I don't think you'll need to, though. Take a stall and watch the fun. I'll tell you only this: You remember Bone Stanley, as he was called in those days—the man who was sent to prison for fifteen years for bank robbery and for shooting the manager? Down Hammersmith way it was. The fellow was an American."
"I remember it quite well," I assented. "He was tried for murder and convicted of manslaughter."
Mr. Bundercombe nodded.
"He was released this afternoon. He'll be here in a few minutes."
"Here!" I exclaimed.
Mr. Bundercombe nodded but did not offer any further explanation. Coupled with a certain gravity of expression he had the appearance of a schoolboy for whom a feast was being set out. "Quite a pleasant little evening we are going to have!" he promised. "You wait!"
I frowned a little uneasily.
"You are quite sure you're not letting me in for—"