"Why shouldn't you? It's your business. I suppose you'd like my photograph and a signed statement?"
"Let it go at that," sighed Good. "That's my business. But to-night I'm off duty. I'm one of your fellow guests. I'm playing gentleman. Give me credit for being a good actor. I'll stay in the part."
"Have you anything else to say?" The question was put icily.
"Oh, cut the tragedy," said Good with a wave of his long hand. "I'm told you're a scrapper, my friend. Well, you're not going to show the yellow now, are you? It looks to me as if you had a first-class scrap on your hands now. What are you going to do—snivel—or get sore—or lie down—or ... what?"
When Baker made no answer, Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at the pair, almost obliterated in the shadows, only the high-lights showing.
"I guess I'll go now," he said quietly. "This doesn't seem to be my party."
Then he laughed cheerfully. "Lucky my being here, wasn't it? You were staging great drama when I came in."
He turned from the doorway and looked back. A smile crept over his craggy features, tender, a little wistful. With a shrug he straightened his shoulders, and he was whistling as he walked away, his jerky movements casting grotesque shadows on the grass.