"Ye-es, my hotel. A drunken sailor climbed in at one of the windows and left by the same route." Carstairs' face was almost expressionless.
"Ah! You didn't see the fun, then?"
"No, there wasn't much to see, I understand."
Darwen stepped up close and looked intently into his eyes. "Do you ever lie, Carstairs?"
"Oh, yes! not, I think, frequently; as often as you, for instance." His face was sphinx-like still.
"No, by God, I don't believe you could! Decently!" He stepped back and laughed aloud. "You've neglected the most vital accomplishment of modern life—to lie well. Ta, ta, old chap, I wish we could be pals." He passed on with a happy smile and looked up to the sun. "The Lord has delivered him into my hands," he said, to himself.
Carstairs rejoined Whitworth, and they returned to the hotel. After dinner, as they sat smoking, he said, suddenly: "Would you like to catch that chap who tried to rob you last night?"
"By Gad, I should like to give him a hiding."
Carstairs puffed his pipe in silence for a few moments, his steady, shrewd eyes observing Whitworth closely. "That man came to murder me, not to rob you," he said, at length.
"Good God, man! What are you talking about?"