Promise me this, and I, as your friend, will
tear up this damning evidence--here and now."
"And--if I--c-can't?"
Barnabas sighed, and folding up the crumpled paper, thrust it back
into his pocket.
"You shall have--a week, to make up your mind. You know my address,
I think,--at least, Mr. Smivvle does." So saying, Barnabas stepped
towards the door, but, seeing the look on Barrymaine's face, he
stooped very suddenly, and picked up the pistol. Then he unlocked
the door and went out, closing it behind him. Upon the dark stairs
he encountered Mr. Smivvle, who had been sitting there making
nervous havoc of his whiskers.
"Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed, "I ought not to have left you alone
with him,--deuce of a state about it, 'pon my honor. But what could
I do,--as I sat here listening to you both I was afraid."
"So was I," said Barnabas. "But he will be quiet now, I think. Here
is one of his pistols, you'd better hide it. And--forget your
differences with him, for if ever a man needed a friend, he does. As
for your rent, don't worry about that, I'll send it round to you
this evening. Good-by."
So Barnabas went on down the dark stairs, and being come to the door
with the faulty latch, let himself out into the dingy street, and
thus came face to face with the man in the fur cap.
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