“Certainly,” retorted the other.
“Am I to understand—”
“You are to understand this, sir—I shall have you prosecuted for conspiring to defeat justice.”
“A large order, Mr. Strong.”
“A damned large order, sir—an order upon which I shall spend fifty thousand pounds with pleasure.”
The soldier stared at him, somewhat stupidly, it must be confessed, for one whose wit was usually so nimble. The whole truth was that Maltravers was a coward, not in the mere physical sense, but rather morally and ethically. Like many a selfish and sensual man, he could play the Pistol when his own sleek interests were threatened. His philosophy was Epicurean in the vulgar sense, a philosophy that shirked any overshadowing of its comfort.
“So, sir, you consider me a criminal?”
“I have my facts.”
The soldier seemed amused despite the gravity of the occasion; the elder man’s face was as stubborn as ever.
“I doubt very much whether you can prove anything.”