“What of it?” he repeated. “What if I was for a brief period—owing to a prejudiced judge and a packed jury—in the place you mention? I decline to have the fact taken as a slur on my character. You are an American, Mr. Shotter, and you know that there is unfortunately a dark side to American politics. My fearless efforts on behalf of the party of reform and progress brought me into open hostility with a gang of unscrupulous men, who did not hesitate to have me arrested on a trumped-up charge and——”
“All this,” said Sam, “would go a lot stronger with me if I hadn’t found you burgling my house.”
It would have been difficult to say whether the expression that swept over Mr. Molloy’s fine face was more largely indignation or amazement.
“Burgling your house? Are you insane? I called here in the hope of seeing you, was informed that you were not at home, and was invited by your manservant, a most civil fellow, to await your return. Burgling your house, indeed! If I were, would you have found me lying on the sofa?”
“Hash let you in?”
Such was the magnetic quality of the personality of one who had often sold large blocks of shares in nonexistent oil wells to Scotchmen, that Sam was beginning in spite of himself to be doubtful.
“If Hash is the name of your manservant, most certainly he let me in. He admitted me by the front door in the perfectly normal and conventional manner customary when gentlemen pay calls.”
“Where is Hash?”
“Why ask me?”
Sam went to the door. The generous indignation of his visitor had caused him to waver, but it had not altogether convinced him.