My
companion's eyes followed mine sympathetically.
"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed. "I am afraid that he is very ill!"
I opened the door and pushed him gently outside.
"We will go downstairs and have that talk," I said.
We found a quiet corner in the smoking-room, where there was a little
recess partitioned off from the rest of the room. My companion drew a
small card-case from his pocket.
"Permit me, Mr. Courage," he said, "to introduce myself. My name is
Stanley, James Stanley, and I come from Liverpool. Waiter, two best
Scotch whiskies, and a large Schweppe's soda."
"Mr. Stanley," I said, "I am glad to know a name by which I can call you,
but this is going to be a straight talk between you and me; and I may as
well tell you that I do not believe that your name is Stanley, or that
you come from Liverpool!"
"Ah! It is immaterial," he declared softly.
"I want to speak to you," I said, "about the man Guest upstairs. It seems
to me that there is a conspiracy going on against him in this hotel. I
want you to understand that I am not prepared to stand quietly aside and
see him done to death!"
My companion laughed softly.
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