“You are as bad as ever,” sighed Ralph.
“Worse,” admitted Zeph, taking his first bite of the pie. Then, out of the corner of his mouth he mumbled: “Know where I just came from?”
“I have no idea. Haven’t heard from you for weeks. You can’t write, I suppose?”
“Never write letters. Have to explain ’em afterward, perhaps. Besides, a letter has often traced a man. ‘Leave no trace’ is my motto.”
“Talk sense,” urged Ralph.
“Am.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. Tell me what makes you so mysterious?”
“I am as mysterious as this ‘graveyard pie,’ ain’t I?” suddenly chuckled Zeph Dallas, holding up the wedge of pie to look at it. “Hullo! Here’s a splinter,” and he picked out the bit of wood. “The beef they ground up for this mince meat must have had a wooden leg. Anyhow, listen.”
“Shoot!” exclaimed Ralph anxiously, sipping his coffee. “Where did you come from?”
“Down the road. I was working for a few days with Section Twenty.”