"I apologize," Kirkwood humored him.
"I accept the apology in the spirit in which it is offered.... I repeat, now for the adventure, Philip. If the story's long, epitomize. We can consider details more at our leisure."
Kirkwood's eyes consulted the girl's face; almost imperceptibly she nodded him permission to proceed.
"Briefly, then," he began haltingly, "the man who followed us to the door here, is Miss Calendar's father."
"Oh? His name, please?"
"George Burgoyne Calendar."
"Ah! An American; I remember, now. Continue, please."
"He is hounding us, sir, with the intention of stealing some property, which he caused to be stolen, which we—to put it bluntly—stole from him, to which he has no shadow of a title, and which, finally, we're endeavoring to return to its owners."
"My dear!" interpolated Brentwick gently, looking down at the girl's flushed face and drooping head.
"He ran us to the last ditch," Kirkwood continued; "I've spent my last farthing trying to lose him."