"Are you sure, Mostyn?" said he in an undertone.
"Certain."
"Well, I'd fight him were he the devil himself! Pistols perhaps would be—"
"Don't be a fool, Harry," cried the other, and seizing his arm, drew him farther away, and, though they lowered their voices, I caught such fragments as "What of George?" "changes since your time," "ruin your chances at the start," "dead shot."
"Sir," said I, "my hat—in the corner yonder."
Almost to my surprise, the taller of the two crossed the room, followed by his friend, to whom he still spoke in lowered tones, stooped, picked up my hat, and, while the other stood scowling, approached, and handed it to me with a bow.
"That my friend, Sir Harry Mortimer, lost his temper, is regretted both by him and myself," said he, "but is readily explained by the fact that he has been a long time from London, while I labored under a—a disadvantage, sir—until your hat was off."
Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid flickered twice in rapid succession.
"I beg you won't mention it," said I, putting on my hat; "but, sir, why do you wink at me?"
"No, no," cried he, laughing and shaking his head, "ha! ha!—deyvilish good! By the way, they tell me George himself is in these parts—incog. of course—"