'I will.'
'And mind you're there.'
'I will be there. Mind you also are there.'
'If I'm alive I'll be there. You ask for Mr. Montagu Babbacombe--that's me. Let me see, your name's----'
'Smith.'
'Smith. Oh, yes, Smith. You look a Smith. I knew a Smith once who was just like you; one of the nicest fellows that ever breathed. Only an awful thief! And such a liar! Perhaps you knew him too. Might have been a brother. Did you ever have a brother who was hung? He was. What's the other name?'
'My name's John Smith, sir, to you.'
'Very well, Mr. John Smith to me, I shall expect to see you to-morrow, Sunday morning, at the York Hotel in Stamford Street, at half-past twelve. And you be there! If you're not there, I hope that you'll be hung; like your brother. You understand?
'Perfectly.'
There was a noise at the back. Turning, I perceived that it was caused by the entrance of Mr. Augustus FitzHoward. I understood that it was time for me to take my leave. I thought it possible that the newcomer might find it difficult to induce Mr. Babbacombe to leave the chair on which he was seated, before finishing the bottle of whisky--which was still half full. I had no wish to witness any discussion of the kind.