"That you, McCrae?" said Dunne, peering at the glow of Farwell's cigar. "I want to see you about——"
"It's Mr. Farwell," Sheila interjected quickly.
A pause. Casey's voice, smooth, polite, broke it.
"I didn't recognize you, Mr. Farwell. How are you?" He dismounted, dropped his reins, and came upon the veranda. "Lovely night, isn't it? Well, and how is everything going with you?"
"I'm fairly busy," Farwell replied grimly, "thanks to the actions of some persons who imagine themselves unknown."
Casey Dunne lit a cigar and held the match in his hand till the flame touched his fingers. He spoke through the ensuing greater darkness:
"I heard that your dam wasn't holding very well."
"Not very well," Farwell agreed, struggling with his temper. "Perhaps you heard that it was dynamited?"
"I think I've heard most of the rumours," Dunne responded calmly.
"I have no doubt of that," Farwell observed with meaning.