Fact is, I'm in a
hole. There's a man after me; and I want you to get me out of this
place pretty quick and without drawing any attention more than you
can avoid."
"O-oh!" said Renton, rubbing his chin, and looking serious. "And
what about the lady?"
"There's no woman in this," Farrell assured him. "No, Ned; nor the
trace of one."
"That's curious," said Renton, still reflective. "You being a
widower, I thought, maybe . . . But as between friends, you'll
understand, I'm not asking."
"I'll tell you the gist of it later," said Farrell. "It started over
politics."
"So? . . . We've a way with that trouble over here," said Renton.
"Now you mention it, I'd read in the London _Times_ that you were
running for municipal government, and then somehow you seemed to fade
out. . . . I wondered why. . . . Is that part of the story?"
Farrell answered that it was. They were seated in Renton's private
office, and Renton picked up a small square block of wood from his
desk. It looked like a paper-weight.
"I've a certain amount of--well, we'll call it influence--hereabouts,
if any man happens to be troubling you," he suggested musingly, and
glanced at Farrell.
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