“Well, I want to see him anyway!” The sheriff laid a brusk hand on the gatelatch.
Monte waved his cigarette airily, flicked the ash from the end with a slender finger, and once more demonstrated that the hand is quicker than the eye. The portentously steady gun in the hand was the first intimation to the eye that the hand had moved at all. It was a very large gun as to caliber, the sheriff noted. As it was pointed directly at his nose he was favorably situated to observe—looking along the barrel—that the hammer stood at full cock.
“Per-rhaps you have some papers for heem?” suggested Monte, with gentle and delicate deference. He still leaned against the doorjamb. “But eef not eet ees bes’ that you do not enter thees my leetle house to distur-rb my gues’. That would be to commeet a r-rudeness—no?”
The sheriff was a sufficiently brave man, if not precisely a brilliant one. Yet he showed now intelligence of the highest order. He dropped the latch.
“You Billy, stop your laughing! Do you know, Mr. Monte, I think you are quite right?” he observed, with a smiling politeness equal to Monte’s own. “That would be rude, certainly. My mistake. An Englishman’s house is his castle—that sort of thing? If you will excuse me now we will go and get the papers, as you so kindly pointed out.”
They went away, the sheriff, Billy and motives—Billy still laughing immoderately.
Monte went inside and stirred up his guest with a prodding boot-toe.
“Meester Jeff,” he demanded, “what you been a-doin’ now?”
Jeff sat up, rumpled his hair, and rubbed his eyes.