“Look here,” said the other, rising to a sitting position and passing a shaking hand across his brow, as if to brush away the fancies of the poppy, “when you convince me that you have a laudable interest in my personal affairs I’ll be glad to answer your questions.”
Ned took the strip of tape from his pocket and held it out to the man on the couch.
“Do you recognize that?” he asked.
Lemon nodded coolly, but a look of wonder and alarm was growing in his bloodshot eyes, and his jaw dropped a trifle.
“I still lack the proof of laudable interest,” he said, with a twisting of the face intended for a smile.
“Answer the question,” Ned replied, “and I’ll inform you of my interest in this article—and in you.”
“Yes, I recognize it as the private mark of Stiles, my tailor,” Lemon answered, in a moment. “Where did you get it? If you insist on asking personal questions I must insist on the right to do the same thing.”
“I cut this private mark,” Ned said, “from the collar of a coat found on the back of a dead man in Montana, somewhere near the main divide of the Rocky Mountains. Do you know how it came there?”
“Yes and no,” was the reply.
“Kindly answer the affirmative proposition first,” Ned said, with a smile.