"Good evening, Mr. Bampton," said Harley genially. "I take it"--
pointing to the newspaper--"that you are looking for a new job?"
Bampton stared, a suspicion of anger in his eyes, then, meeting
the amused glance of my friend, he broke into a smile very
pleasing and humorous. He was a fresh-coloured young fellow with
hair inclined to redness, and smiling he looked very boyish
indeed.
"I have no idea who you are," he said, speaking with a faint
north-country accent, "but you evidently know who I am and what
has happened to me."
"Got the boot?" asked Harley confidentially.
Bampton, tossing the end of his cigarette into the grate, nodded
grimly.
"You haven't told me your name," he said, "but I think I can tell
you your business." He ceased smiling. "Now look here, I don't
want any more publicity. If you think you are going to make a
funny newspaper story out of me change your mind as quick as you
like. I'll never get another job in London as it is. If you
drag me any further into the limelight I'll never get another job
in England."
"My dear fellow," replied Harley soothingly, at the same time
extending his cigarette-case, "you misapprehend the object of my
call. I am not a reporter.
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