‘What have you been doing?’ demanded Denny surlily; he had not enjoyed Euphrosyne’s scornful attitude.
‘I have been running for my life,’ said I, ‘from the biggest scoundrels unhanged. Denny, make a guess who lives in that cottage.’
‘Constantine?’
‘I don’t mean him.’
‘Not Vlacho—he’s at the inn.’
‘No, I don’t mean Vlacho.’
‘Who then, man?’
‘Someone you’ve seen.’
‘Oh, I give it up. It’s not the time of day for riddles.’