Bundercombe's house in Prince's Gardens. I noticed that the manner of the
servant who admitted me was subdued and there was a peculiar gloom about
the place. Very few lights were lit and the farther portion of the house,
of which one could catch a glimpse from the little circular hall, seemed
entirely deserted. I was shown at once into Mr. Bundercombe's study upon
the ground floor. Mr. Bundercombe was seated at a writing table, with his
face toward the door. He greeted me with a friendly nod and pointed to a
little table upon which stood an abundant display of cigars and cigarettes
of all brands.
I helped myself and lit a cigarette.
"May I know something of this evening's program?" I asked.
"Spoil the whole show?" Mr. Bundercombe objected earnestly. "Just play the
part of assistant audience and stick this into your pocket, will you?"
He threw toward me a very small revolver that he had produced from a
drawer.
"Only the last three chambers are loaded," he remarked. "You'll have to
click three times if you do use it. I don't think you'll need to, though.
Take a stall and watch the fun. I'll tell you only this: You remember Bone
Stanley, as he was called in those days--the man who was sent to prison
for fifteen years for bank robbery and for shooting the manager? Down
Hammersmith way it was.
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