Chirk slipped the pistol back into his pocket. “You’re a cool hand, ain’t you?” he remarked curiously.
The Captain, emerging from the cupboard again with a jar of pickles and a pipkin of butter, said: “Do you expect me to break into a sweat because you point a gun at me? I’ve been hoping you might come here sooner or later.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Chirk. “And why—if I’m not making too bold to ask?”
“Well, as far as I can discover,” said John, holding a large jug under the spigot of his new barrel of beer, and watching the ale froth into it, “you may be the only person who can tell me where Ned Brean may have gone to.”
“Ain’t he here?” demanded Chirk.
“No, and hasn’t been, since Friday evening.”
“Well, may I be stuck in the nitch!” exclaimed Chirk, considerably astonished. “What should have taken him to lope off?”
“Don’t you know?”
Chirk shook his head. “Don’t young Ben know?”
“No. He went out, telling Ben he would be back in an hour or so, and he hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”