“What sort?”
“Why, religious, you know.”
“I am not religious. But ever since I was a little chap I have always felt somehow that God is near me. Don’t you think so, Sergeant?”
The sergeant, who was one of the most regular and faithful attendants at Church Parade and most devout in his religious exercises, found himself hard put to it by the sudden demand for a confession of his faith.
“Eh? What? Why, of course—why, dash it all, boy, I’m not a blasted atheist.”
“I beg your pardon, Sergeant. I knew, of course. But what I mean is, you needn’t worry about me when I see Sleeman. He ought to be killed, but I have got over the notion that it is my particular job to kill him.”
“Righto!” said the sergeant heartily. “And the same, you never know. Sleeman is a proper brute. He has injured you terribly, cheated your father too if I’m not mistaken. You never know what he may say or do. Might insult you, say something about your—your people, you know.”
“I have thought of that. But I must see him. I must get a statement of his dealings with my father, you see.”
“Will you get that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Paul with quiet assurance.