“Indeed! Then I am surprised you do not use the fresh air oftener. For surely it is cheaper than drinking wine.”
“In future,” he said, “I intend to do so.”
“But why these swords, Sir Miles? You know the rule of the Wells.”
“They wanted sharpening,” he replied. “The air of the Downs is so keen, that it sets an edge on sword-blades.”
“You looked—fie, gentlemen!—for Mr. Temple to help sharpen the blades, as a butcher sharpens his knife, by putting steel to steel. Sir Miles, you are a wicked and bloodthirsty man.”
He laughed, and so did the officer. Lord Chudleigh changed colour.
“Gentlemen,” I went on, “I have to tell you—I have come here to tell you—that an accident has happened to Mr. Temple, which will prevent his keeping the appointment made for him at this hour. I am sure, if he knew that I was coming here, he would ask me to express his great regret at keeping you waiting. Now, however, you may all go home again, and put off killing each other for another day.”
They looked at each other, astonished.
“My lord,” I said, “I am sure you will let me ask you what injury my poor friend Harry Temple has done you that you desire to compass his death.”
“Nay,” he replied, “I desire not to compass any man’s death. I am here against my will. I have no quarrel with him.”