“May I ask who the devil you are?”
“Certainly, sir; I am John Strong of Saltire.”
The soldier thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and slouching his shoulders, looked at the ex-tea-merchant with his alert, black eyes.
“Mr. Strong?” he repeated.
“John Strong.”
“Have we met before?”
“I guess not.”
“Will you sit down, sir?”
“No, sir; I prefer to stand.”
“As you like,” said the soldier, with a sniff; “kindly explain your business.”