So here I was, a clumsy, unmannerly fellow with a guilty conscience to boot, face to face with a very Chesterfield of the best licensed establishments and the whole body of law and order and public duty overwhelmingly on his side. We stood there under the unlighted public-house lamp, while the violet light of the May evening slowly faded from what Hodgson had called "Chelsea's pleasant roofs."
He was fully aware that he possessed what the correspondents used to call the initiative. This showed in his very few first words. I, it appeared, was to be forced to open the ball.
"Now, sir, you wished to see me, I believe," he said pompously.
I was on the point of reminding him that it was he who had made the proposal to come outside when he put up a peremptory hand.
"No, no. I know what you're going to say, and that don't go down. When I say you wanted to see me I mean you came here to-night for that purpose. Specially. Well, here I am."
I suppose I should have been within my rights in answering that I had entered those swing doors for a glass of beer and had not spoken to him until he had borrowed my newspaper; but obviously that line led nowhere. Moreover, from his comparative calm of manner now, I realized that while the larger advantages lay with him, at least one small tactical superiority was mine. He was quiet for the moment, but would probably flare up again immediately at the mention of Mackwith's name. So I kept Mackwith in reserve.
"Well," I said in a conciliatory tone. "I have a feeling that both of us wished to see the other, and from what you've told me with very good reason. Isn't that so?"
"How do you mean, what I've told you?" he said suspiciously.
"I mean that you've given me the impression that there's more in this Case than meets the eye."