Then came Aunt Cal’s voice. “Gopher!” she cried, her tone odd and uncontrolled.
The man did not answer. He was engaged in raising himself stiffly out of the hole. He was dressed in sailor trousers and a sleeveless shirt. As the bottom of the cupboard fell back into place he turned and glared at Hamish. “So you’re the guy that’s been playin’ them smart tricks!” he snarled.
“If you mean locking you in the cellar,” Hamish returned, “I figured you’d be some annoyed. But the next time you peddle fake hair tonic——”
“It’s a good tonic,” snapped the little man. “I made it myself in Brazil from a native receipt.”
“Yeah, but you had to get yourself a supply of wigs to make folks fall for it!”
This exchange of repartee was interrupted by Michael. “Look here,” he demanded, “what are you hiding in this house for? What are you after?”
The man turned on him sourly. “What business is that of yourn?”
“It’s my business!” Aunt Cal’s voice had regained its customary authority. She had dropped onto one of the straight horsehair covered chairs and was regarding the man with a strange tense look. “Where,” she demanded, “is Carter Craven?”
Mr. Bangs—for of course it was he—seemed to notice her for the first time. And there was recognition in his glance as he answered more respectfully than he had yet spoken.
“Craven’s gone. Died in the Argentine last winter.”