The Romanys don't love you
better than their rightful chief."
"I am their rightful chief."
"Maybe, but if they don't say so, too, you might as well be their
rightful slave. You are a genius in your way. Take my advice and return
to the trail of the Gipsy. Or, there's many an orchestra would give you a
good salary as leader. You've got no standing in this country. You can't
do anything to hurt me except try to kill me, and I'll take my chance of
that. You'd better have a drink now and go quietly home to bed. Try and
understand that this is a British town, and we don't settle our affairs
by jumping from a violin rhapsody to a knife or a gun." He jerked his
head backwards towards the wall. "Those things are for ornament, not for
use. Come, Fawe, have a drink and go home like a good citizen for one
night only."
The Romany hesitated, then shook his head and muttered chaotically.
"Very well," was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed a bell, and, in an
instant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidently been at the
keyhole. "Jim," he said, "show the gentleman out."
But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust it
into the Romany's hands. "They're the best to be got this side of
Havana," he said cheerily.
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