A hackney-coach was already waiting at the door; and the moment Frank rang the office-bell, Mr. Howard appeared.
"Come, jump in—we have not a minute to lose," said the latter.
Frank accordingly entered the coach, in which, to his surprise, he found two ill-looking, shabbily-dressed fellows ensconced. Mr. Howard followed him—the door was closed hastily—and away rolled the vehicle in a westerly direction.
Mr. Curtis was now enabled to examine at his ease—or rather at his leisure, for easy he was not—the two individuals just mentioned.
One was a man of about forty, dressed in seedy black, and with a beard of at least three days' growth, and a shirt that seemed as if it had been worn and slept in too for a fortnight. His face was pale and cadaverous, and its expression sinister in the extreme. His companion was worse-looking and dirtier still; but his countenance was red and bloated with intemperance. He carried a stout stick in his hand, and smelt awfully of rum.
"Got your pistols, Frank?" inquired Mr. Howard, when the coach had moved off the pavement.
"Pistols!" repeated the young gentleman, turning dreadfully pale. "I thought you—you—you——"
And his teeth chattered violently.
"I know what I promised; and what I promised I will perform," responded the attorney. "But I thought you might like to make a show of an intention to fight, before I interfered."
"Oh! you know I never bully," exclaimed Frank. "If I made a show of fighting, as you call it, I would fight—and not pretend merely."