Sir Walter awaited me in a dusky dining-room where a little round table was lit with silver candles. The sight of him⁠—so respectable and established and secure, the embodiment of law and government and all the conventions⁠—took me aback and made me feel an interloper. He couldn’t know the truth about me, or he wouldn’t treat me like this. I simply could not accept his hospitality on false pretences.

“I’m more obliged to you than I can say, but I’m bound to make things clear,” I said. “I’m an innocent man, but I’m wanted by the police. I’ve got to tell you this, and I won’t be surprised if you kick me out.”

He smiled. “That’s all right. Don’t let that interfere with your appetite. We can talk about these things after dinner.”

I never ate a meal with greater relish, for I had had nothing all day but railway sandwiches. Sir Walter did me proud, for we drank a good champagne and had some uncommon fine port afterwards. It made me almost hysterical to be sitting there, waited on by a footman and a sleek butler, and remember that I had been living for three weeks like a brigand, with every man’s hand against me. I told Sir Walter about tiger-fish in the Zambesi that bite off your fingers if you give them a chance, and we discussed sport up and down the globe, for he had hunted a bit in his day.

We went to his study for coffee, a jolly room full of books and trophies and untidiness and comfort. I made up my mind that if ever I got rid of this business and had a house of my own, I would create just such a room. Then when the coffee-cups were cleared away, and we had got our cigars alight, my host swung his long legs over the side of his chair and bade me get started with my yarn.