One night as I was on my way from my room to the drawing-room, on the other side of the hall, I saw by the front door a big man in a blue cavalry cloak and cap, who had just entered. He was laying aside his cloak as I passed, and took out of their holsters first one and then another navy revolver, both seven-shooters. I said, too flippantly:
"You take good care of yourself."
He turned on me sharply, with a questioning look of keen eyes under heavy eyebrows:
"Are you a friend of Smith-Barry?"
"I should hardly be staying in his house if I were not."
"Then I will tell you how you can best prove your friendship. Get him to carry what I carry."
"Is he in danger?"
"Danger? There's a detective at this moment behind every tree about the house, and even so we don't know what may happen. We hope he is safe here at home, but he goes about unarmed, and it is known he is unarmed, and no man who does that can be sure of his life. We have tried our best to make him take care of himself. He will not. Now do you try."
This sudden outburst, this appeal, this flash of light upon the scene were all impressive. The big man, it turned out, was the Chief Constable of the county. He knew whereof he spoke. I promised to do what I could and I talked with Mr. Smith-Barry.
He was a man equally remarkable for courage and for coolness, but in matters affecting his personal safety he did not use the judgment for which in other matters he was distinguished. He could not be persuaded that anybody would think it worth while to kill him. He knew well enough that the shooting of landlords had become a popular pastime, but he could not, or would not, understand why he himself should be shot.