Bampton stared, a suspicion of anger in his eyes, then, meeting the amused glance of my friend, he broke into a smile very pleasing and humorous. He was a fresh-coloured young fellow with hair inclined to redness, and smiling he looked very boyish indeed.
“I have no idea who you are,” he said, speaking with a faint north-country accent, “but you evidently know who I am and what has happened to me.”
“Got the boot?” asked Harley confidentially.
Bampton, tossing the end of his cigarette into the grate, nodded grimly.
“You haven't told me your name,” he said, “but I think I can tell you your business.” He ceased smiling. “Now look here, I don't want any more publicity. If you think you are going to make a funny newspaper story out of me change your mind as quick as you like. I'll never get another job in London as it is. If you drag me any further into the limelight I'll never get another job in England.”
“My dear fellow,” replied Harley soothingly, at the same time extending his cigarette-case, “you misapprehend the object of my call. I am not a reporter.”
“What!” said Bampton, pausing in the act of taking a cigarette, “then what the devil are you?”
“My name is Paul Harley, and I am a criminal investigator.”
He spoke the words deliberately, having his eyes fixed upon the other's face; but although Bampton was palpably startled there was no trace of fear in his straightforward glance. He took a cigarette from the case, and:
“Thanks, Mr. Harley,” he said. “I cannot imagine what business has brought you here.”