"Do you mean as a shot,—or as a liar?" inquired Blythe, grinning.
"Both," said Charlie.
He had a very definite purpose in leading his guest through the stable-yard. By doing so he avoided the customary approach to the Tavern, in full view from Courtney's windows. They circled the building and arrived at the long, low porch from the north. Here they encountered Furman Hatch. Charlie appeared greatly surprised to find the photographer there.
"What are you doing here at this time o' day, Tintype?" he demanded. "Takin' a vacation?"
"I come over for some prints I left in my room last night," explained Mr. Hatch.
"We're going up to call on Court," said Charlie. "Won't you join us?"
Hatch looked at his watch, frowned dubiously, and then said he could spare a few minutes,—and that was just what it was understood in advance that he was to say!
"He goes by the name of Tintype," explained Mr. Webster, after the two men had shaken hands. "Not because he looks like one, but because the village idiot's name is Furman, and we have to have some way of tellin' them apart."
A few minutes later, Charlie knocked resoundingly on Courtney's door.
"Who is it?"