CHAPTER VII
It was about half-past ten on the following morning when Julian, obeying a stentorian invitation to enter, walked into Miles Furley’s sitting room. Furley was stretched upon the couch, smoking a pipe and reading the paper.
“Good man!” was his hearty greeting. “I hoped you’d look me up this morning.”
Julian dragged up the other dilapidated-looking easy-chair to the log fire and commenced to fill his pipe from the open jar.
“How’s the leg?” he enquired.
“Pretty nearly all right again,” Furley answered cheerfully. “Seems to me I was frightened before I was hurt. What about your head?”
“No inconvenience at all,” Julian declared, stretching himself out. “I suppose I must have a pretty tough skull.”
“Any news?”
“News enough, of a sort, if you haven’t heard it. They caught the man who sandbagged me, and who I presume sawed your plank through, and shot him last night.”
“The devil they did!” Furley exclaimed, taking his pipe from his mouth. “Shot him? Who the mischief was he, then?”