“As long as you’re here, sir, you might as well take a seat,” he said, after a minute’s pause. “That ’s it. Now, sir, first of all, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me who you are and what the devil you mean, sir, by coming here and meddling in this way with other people’s private affairs.”
“Curious, isn’t it,” remarked the young man from Houghton County, blandly, “how we Americans lug in the word ‘sir’ every other breath? They tell me no Englishman ever uses it at all.”
The O’Mahony stirred in his chair.
“I’m not as easy-going a man or as good-natured as I used to be, my young friend,” he said, with an affectation of calm, through which ran a threatening note.
“I shouldn’t have thought it,” protested Bernard. “You seemed the pink of politeness out there in the graveyard this morning. But I suppose years of campaigning—”
“See here!” the other interposed abruptly. “Don’t fool with me. It’s a risky game! Unless you want trouble, stop monkeying and answer my question straight: Who are you?”
The young man had ceased smiling. His face had all at once become very grave, and he was staring at The O’Mahony with wide-open, bewildered eyes.
“True enough!” he gasped, after his gaze had been so protracted that the other half rose from his seat in impatient anger. “Why—yes, sir! I’ll swear to it—well—this does beat all!”
“Your cheek beats all!” broke in The O’Mahony, springing to his feet in a gust of choleric heat.
Bernard stretched forth a restraining hand.