“How did it turn out?” asked Mrs. Knapp with lively interest. “Did he get back?”
I decided promptly on a judicious amount of the truth.
“Yes, he got back, boiling with wrath, and loaded to the guards with threats—that is, I heard so from my men. I didn't see him myself, or you might have found the rest of it in the newspaper.”
“What did he do? Tell me about it.” Mrs. Knapp gave every evidence of absorbed interest.
“Well, he laid a trap for me at Borton's, put Terrill in as advance guard, and raised blue murder about the place.” And then I went on to give a carefully amended account of my first night's row at Borton's, and with an occasional question, Mrs. Knapp had soon extorted from me a fairly full account of my doings.
“It is dreadful for you to expose yourself to such dangers.”
I was privately of her opinion.
“Oh, that's nothing,” said I airily. “A man may be killed any day by a brick falling from a building, or by slipping on an orange peel on the crossing.”
“But it is dreadful to court death so. Yet,” she mused, “if I were a man I could envy you your work. There is romance and life in it, as well as danger. You are doing in the nineteenth century and in the midst of civilization what your forefathers may have done in the days of chivalry.”
“It is a fine life,” I said dryly. “But it has its drawbacks.”