“I wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I am no Daniel.”
“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “that if I was in a jesting humour—which is far from the case—I believe I might lay a claim on your lordship for two hundred pounds.”
“In what sense?” he inquired.
“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” said I.
He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat straight up in the chair where he had been previously lolling. “What am I to understand?” said he.
“‘A tall strong lad of about eighteen,’” I quoted; “‘speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard.’”
“I recognise those words,” said he, “which, if you have come here with any ill-judged intention of amusing yourself, are like to prove extremely prejudicial to your safety.”
“My purpose in this,” I replied, “is just entirely as serious as life and death, and you have understood me perfectly. I am the boy who was speaking with Glenure when he was shot.”
“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim to be innocent,” said he.