"Why, you did not look for me so late, madam," says he, pleasantly. "But I spied lights, and thought maybe Sir Philip was at his cards and would give me welcome, and the door was open. But I find only," he concluded, with an indifferent glance on me, "a Merry Andrew who talks brimstone and looks daggers."
"Sir Philip has been attacked," stammered miss; "the surgeon has just left him."
"'Tis not serious, I trust," says the fellow, gravely, and when she had faltered out her negative, continued very polite, "Footpads, I doubt not. The streets are abominable in these days, and the watch is ever asleep."
But that was too much for me, and I burst forth.
"Footpads!" said I. "Hear him, miss? Why, 'twas the dung-fork himself. The mask fell from his face as he fought me, and I saw him plain. I would have you and Sir Philip know what manner of man this is who calls himself friend."
"Softly, softly; you crow loud," said he, as impudent as ever, and smiling softly. "Who, d'ye suppose, would credit this cock-and-bull story? I profess I know none. Would you, madam?" he asked, turning suddenly on the girl.
She hesitated ever so little, and showed some confusion.
"I—I think the gentleman mistook," said she. "I cannot credit such a story. 'Tis monstrous."
"Why, miss," said I, "'tis true as I am a living man. And as for this muckrake here, why, I will prove it on his skin if he denies it," and out I whipped my iron, ready for an onfall. But it seemed that he would not budge, and smiled as indifferent as ever. And miss, too, though she showed no colour, regained her composure, and says she, firmly,—
"'Tis monstrous. I cannot believe it. This gentleman is a friend to me and Sir Philip. He is on terms of intimacy. Lard, sir, you surprise me to make such rash statements. Your eyes deceived you, or the dark."