The Colonel raised his eyebrows. I laughed.
“I'm not going to twang guitars under balconies.”
The Colonel reddened and swore he had never thought of such a thing. He was a perjured villain; but I did not tell him so.
“In what my adventure will consist I can't say,” I remarked.
“If you're going to fool about Algiers at night you'd better carry a revolver.”
I told him I did not possess such deadly weapons. He offered to lend me one. The two Misses Bostock from South Shields, who sat at the table within earshot and had been following our conversation, manifested signs of excited interest.
“I shall be quite protected,” said I, “by the dynamic qualities of your acquaintance, Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos, with whom I have promised to spend the evening.”
“You had better have the revolver,” said the Colonel. And so bent was he on the point, that after dinner he came to me in the lounge and laid a loaded six-shooter beside my coffee-cup. The younger Miss Bostock grew pale. It looked an ugly, cumbrous, devastating weapon.
“But, my dear Colonel,” I protested, “it's against the law to carry fire-arms.”
“Law—what law?”