“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve had for a week?”
“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train.”
“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.”
“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?”
“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria respectable?”
Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.
“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant.
“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.
“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.”
“I must interview Elkin.”