Mr. William Slewer was an inveterate smoker of bad cigars.
He lay full length on a sofa with a glowing butt between his teeth, and rose slowly and painfully to his feet as the knight entered.
"How is the leg?" asked Sir Harry pleasantly.
Bill Slewer permitted himself to smile. "That's nothin'," he said indifferently, "a little thing like that don't trouble me any. She smarts some, but nothin' to boast about."
He looked expectantly at Sir Harry and that gentleman read his unspoken questions.
"I have nothing to tell you further," he said, "we are doing our best to make Brockley too hot for him."
"He'd better get a wiggle on," said Mr. Slewer calmly, "I'm sure tired of this foolish old country."
"You must do nothing," said Sir Harry hastily, "you understand that I am not interested in your private affairs, and you must do nothing in Brockley—I will not be associated with the business. I had hoped to have accomplished my purpose anonymously. I had hoped that through the medium of the local press I might have been able to shame the man away, without in any way identifying myself with the—er—movement."
He wiped his forehead nervously.
"I cannot tell you," he went on, with a show at firmness, "how much I deprecate your shooting affray—it is unconstitutional, Mr. Slewer. Very well in its way for America and similar lawless places, but revolver shooting in the suburbs of London Mr. Slewer,—it's—it's—hazardous."