"I beg yours also, Señor," said the stranger, bowing. "I was wondering whether any of you had any red about you."
"Any red about us?—well really—no, I don't think I have—I used to carry a red bandanna once, but—"
"Barker," asked Auberon Quin, suddenly, "where's your red cockatoo? Where's your red cockatoo?"
"What do you mean?" asked Barker, desperately. "What cockatoo? You've never seen me with any cockatoo!"
"I know," said Auberon, vaguely mollified. "Where's it been all the time?"
Barker swung round, not without resentment.
"I am sorry, sir," he said, shortly but civilly, "none of us seem to have anything red to lend you. But why, if one may ask—"
"I thank you, Señor, it is nothing. I can, since there is nothing else, fulfil my own requirements."
And standing for a second of thought with the penknife in his hand, he stabbed his left palm. The blood fell with so full a stream that it struck the stones without dripping. The foreigner pulled out his handkerchief and tore a piece from it with his teeth. The rag was immediately soaked in scarlet.