He looked at Muhammed with a half-sardonic, half-inquiring gaze as he spoke. And there was a faintly emphasized inflection on the last two words.
The Moor looked back at him impassively, and then drew aside with an obsequious droop of the head.
But to Claire and, to a less extent to Aylmer, there was a queer, indefinite sense of something which impended—something which racked them with suspicion in the attitude of those about them. Landon's surrender was too facile; Luigi's deference too pliant; Muhammed's apathetic eyes were never less convincing of guilelessness. When they reached the cottage, and stood with Padre Sigismondi before the blaze in the great open hearth and watched the quick preparations which were being made to improvise a meal, the unreality of their surroundings seemed to grow in significance. No one interfered with them; no one even noticed them. Luigi set the table; Muhammed busied himself with the coffee-pot; Landon held the father's dripping garments to the blaze while their owner assumed a sailor's trousers and jersey in an adjoining room. It was too incredible, this sudden turning of tables. They looked at each other doubtfully.
Their speculations received a sudden interruption. The door opened to admit Miller.
He was half dressed. He blinked—it was apparent that he and sleep had parted company a short half minute before.
"I heard noises," he said, and then his glance fell upon the two who stood near the fireplace, side by side. His usual phlegm seemed to desert him. He gave an exclamation.
"You!" he cried. "You!"
He wheeled towards Landon.
"Will you explain?" he cried harshly. "What is happening?"
"I entertain guests—a small, but select, family party," grinned Landon.