He defended himself and did it brilliantly. In the end he
got off. There is scarcely a person, however, who doubts but that he was
guilty."
I looked across at the subject of our discussion with renewed interest.
"He shot him, I suppose?" I asked.
"On the contrary," Mr. Bundercombe replied, "he throttled him. The man has
the sinews of an ox. The second time I saw him was at a dancing-hall in
New York. He was there with a very gay party indeed; but one of them, the
wealthiest, mysteriously disappeared. Rodwell--Dagger Rodwell was his
nickname--came to England. I saw him once or twice just before I visited
you down in Bedfordshire. Cullen warned me off him, however; wouldn't let
me have a word to say to him."
"He doesn't sound the best companion in the world for your little typist
friend," I remarked.
Mr. Bundercombe glanced across the room and at that moment the girl
noticed him. She bowed and waved her hand. Mr. Bundercombe responded
gallantly.
"I fancy," he murmured, "that she can take care of herself. Come, I really
feel that I am in an interesting atmosphere once more."
Mr. Bundercombe's deportment was certainly more cheerful. For the last
week or two he had been depressed. He had paid visits with Eve and myself,
and devoted a reasonable amount of time to his wife.
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