“Have a smoke,” he asked, proffering a packet of cigarettes.
“No, thanks!” said Ross, and stood there, facing the other, and obviously waiting for an explanation.
“Dirty weather!” said the stranger.
“All right!” said Ross sullenly. “What about it?”
His tone was very nearly savage, for, to tell the truth, his position was having a bad effect upon his temper. Having so much to conceal, so many unwelcome secrets intrusted to him, he had begun to suspect every one. He didn’t like this fellow.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the stranger, in an easy and confidential manner. “I came up this way, looking for a man. And I thought I’d drop in here and see if you could give me any information.” He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross. “Fellow by the name of Ives,” he said. “Ever hear of him, eh?”
“No!” said Ross.
“Ives,” said the other, slowly. “Martin Ives. Fellow about your age. About your build. Dark complexioned—like you.”
“D’you think I’m your Martin Ives?” demanded Ross, angrily.
“I wish you were,” said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness.