"You'll not lay hands on him?"
"No."
"That's a promise?"
"Why, of course it is!" Johnson Boller said heartily.
Anthony Fry heaved a great, shaky sigh and stood back. It had not happened that time. David's wig was still in place, and David was still David. Yet, all other things apart, what if David's wig had slipped? What if, during the thirty or forty years he still had to live, Anthony must have cut out Johnson Boller's really stimulating friendship, or have listened, day in and day out, night in and night out, at every meeting and on every sly occasion, to a recital of what had happened this morning?
The strain was really growing too much. Johnson Boller would have to get out of here now and—although why was Johnson Boller smiling so sweetly?
"Quite a little boxer, kid, aren't you?" he was asking in the most friendly fashion.
"I've boxed with my brother," David said.
"Made a study of it, eh?"
"So-so," said David.