—Guy of Gisborne.
WHEN he woke the soft-voiced, white-handed man again sat beside the bed, again in the same equestrian attitude, clasping the back of the chair, beaming with good humor.
“And how is our young friend now? Much better, I trust. We have had a long and refreshing sleep. Is our brain quite clear?”
Here the fat man—the less ill-favored one—rose silently from beside the fire and left them.
“Our young friend is extremely hungry,” said Jeff. “Our young friend’s brain is clear, but our young friend’s head is rather sore. Where am I? In jail?” He sat up and pushed back the bandage for clearer vision.
The jovial gentleman laughed—a merry and mellow peal. “What a spirited fellow you are! And what an extremely durable headpiece you have! A jail? Well, not exactly, my dear fellow, not exactly. Let us say, in a cache, in a retreat, sometimes used by gentlemen wishing temporary retirement from society. You are also, though I grieve to say it, in a jackpot—to use a phrase the precise meaning and origin of which I do not comprehend, but which seems to be, in the vernacular, a synonym for the more common word predicament.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “A very sad predicament, indeed! Quite unintentionally, and in obedience to a chivalrous impulse—which does you great credit, I assure you—you have had the misfortune to mar a very-well-laid plan of mine. Had I not been a quick thinker, marvelously fertile in expedients, your officiousness would have placed me in an awkward quandary. However, in the very brief time at my disposal I was able to hit upon a device equally satisfactory—I may say even more satisfactory than the original.”
“Hold on!” said Jeff. “I don’t quite keep up. You planned a midnight assassination which did not go off smoothly. I’ve got that. You were one of the men in the cab. There was a fight——”
“There was, indeed!” interrupted the genial gentleman. His eyes lit up with enthusiasm; his shapely fingers tapped the chair-back. “Such a fight! It was magnificent! Believe me, my dear Bransford, it inspired me with an almost affectionate admiration for you! And your opponent was a most redoubtable person, with a sensitive trigger finger——”
“Excuse the interruption,” said Jeff. “But you seem to have the advantage of me in the matter of names.”
“So I have, so I have! As you will infer, I looked through your pockets. Thorpe is my name—S. S. Thorpe. Stay—here is my card. You will see that I am entitled to the prefix ‘Hon.,’ having been sometime State Senator. Call me Judge. I have never occupied that exalted position, but all the boys call me Judge. To go back—we were speaking of your opponent. Perhaps you knew him? No? Mr. Broderick, Mr. Oily Broderick, once of San Antonio, a man of some renown. We shall miss him, Mr. Bransford, we shall miss him! A very useful fellow! But your eyes ask the question—Dead? Dear me, yes! Dead and buried these many hours. He never knew what ailed him. Both of your bullets found a vital spot. A sad loss! But I interrupt. I am much interested to see how nearly accurate your analysis of the situation will be.”