"I am much indebted to you, Mr. Burton," he said. "I was under the impression that gentlemen of your kind were extinct, except in novels. It is refreshing to find that I was wrong."
"It is because I object to becoming extinct," I replied, "that I ventured to send you my message."
He replaced his glasses, and again examined me with a kind of cynical amusement.
"Yes, I should imagine that life was eminently worth living to anyone with your digestion and morals." Then he paused. "I believe your story, Mr. Burton," he added. "It is altogether too incredible to be doubted."
I bowed.
"Besides," he continued ironically, "it has the additional merit of explaining several facts over which our good friend Inspector Curtis is at present straining his intelligence."
"I suppose," I said, with some reluctance, "that I shall have to tell the truth?"
Lord Lammersfield raised his hand protestingly. "One should never consider the most desperate course until the alternatives have been exhausted. I will send George Gordon down to you this afternoon. He has a natural aversion to the truth that I have never seen equalled; and if there is any feasible method of extracting you from your difficulties without resorting to accuracy, you may be sure that he will find it."
He had named the most famous young K.C. of the day—a brilliant criminal barrister, and the rising hope of the Conservative party.
I began to thank him, but he cut me short.