"But why have you left Scotland? You were safer there."
"Don't know that I was. And I had grown tired to death of it."
"It will end in death, or something like it, if you persist in staying here."
Tom laughed his gay, ringing laugh. I looked round to see that no one was about, or within hearing.
"What a croaker you are, old Charley! I'm sure you ought to kill the fatted calf, to celebrate my return from banishment."
"But, Tom, you know how dangerous it is, and must be, for you to be here in London."
"And it was becoming dangerous up there," he quickly rejoined. "Since the summer season set in, those blessed tourists are abroad again, with their staves and knapsacks. No place is safe from them, and the smaller and more obscure it is, the more they are sure to find it. The other day I was in my boat in my fishing toggery, as usual, when a fellow comes up, addresses me as 'My good man,' and plunges into queries touching the sea and the fishing-trade. Now who do you think that was, Charles?"
"I can't say."
"It was James Lawless, Q.C.—the leader who prosecuted at my trial."
"Good heavens!"