"If it looks like me, it is me," snarled the Gypsy. "Him—over there," he cried, pointing to the groom, "he donta looka like his own face if I get him."
"Come, old friend," said Owen in a low voice. "Don't you remember me? Don't you remember the Zoological Garden in Brussels and the lion that bent a cage so easily one day that it killed Herr Bruner, of Berlin."
The last words spoken almost in a whisper, had an electrical effect upon the lion tamer. He fairly writhed in his seat and cowered away from Owen as from one who held a knife over his head.
It was at this moment that Harry, looking from the hill, put away his binoculars and turned his car around.
"Come, let's see the lions, may I?" asked Owen, cheerily ignoring the man's terror, secretly enjoying it.
Without a word Garcia led the way into the stables.
The lions, six in number, were quartered in box stalls rebuilt with heavy steel bars. They had been quiet, but the sight of a stranger set them wild and their roaring thundered through the building.
Garcia led Owen to farthest cage and stopped abruptly.
"You after me?" he inquired, his nerve partially recovered.
"Yes, but to help you, not to harm you, old friend."