"I say! I was thinking," he ventured at last. "Two swords, that's all?
Just so. Now--my boy used to be learn-pidgin at Chantel's. Knows that
'ouse inside out--loafs there now, the beggar, with Chantel's cook. Why
not send him over--prowling, ye know--fingers the bric-a-brac, bloomin'
ass, and breaks a sword-blade. Perfectly netch'ral. 'Can secure, all
plopah,' Accident, ye know. All off with their little duel. What?"
Heywood chuckled, and bowed his head to the horse-clippers.
"Last week," he replied. "Not to-day. This afternoon's rather late for
accidents. You make me feel like Pompey on his galley: 'This thou
shouldst have done, and not have spoken on't,'--Besides, those swords
belonged to Chantel's father. He began as a gentleman.--But you're a
good sort, Nesbit, to take the affair this fashion."
Lost in smoke, the clerk grumbled that the gory affair was unmentionable
nonsense.
"Quite," said Heywood. "We've tried reasoning. No go. As you say, an
accident. That's all can save the youngster now. Impossible, of course."
He sighed. Then suddenly the gray eyes lighted, became both shrewd and
distant; a malicious little smile stole about the corners of his mouth.
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