“Come on, then, draw up a chair and let’s have it out. It would simplify matters to exchange names. Mine is Raeburn—Captain Raeburn—and this is Mr. Bryan.”
The old actor bowed ceremoniously to each in turn.
“And mine,” he said, “is Eliphalet Cardomay.”
By the expression of surprise on their faces it was clear, until this moment, they had failed to recognise in him the gallant Colonel of an hour before.
“Is it, begad?” said Raeburn. “Then our conversation must have been devilish unpleasant overhearing.” He offered no apology, however.
Eliphalet shrugged his shoulders and, dividing the tails of his long, old-fashioned frock-coat, sat down at the small table.
Mr. Bryan was of more sensitive metal than his companion, and felt the need to smooth some of the creases from the situation.
“Raeburn,” he said, with a conciliatory laugh, “says a good deal he doesn’t mean. You know what it is! Personally, I am sorry you should have overheard his criticisms—very sorry indeed.”
“I am glad I did,” was the response, “for it gives me the chance of refuting them. It is not very agreeable for us to have people saying in public that we lack the essential elements of courage.”
“Well, well, well!” said Raeburn with brusque heartiness, “a word spoken is a bullet fired. No use pretending you didn’t touch the trigger, eh?”