“There’s been another stranger in here since you went away,” the old man smilingly told him. “What is he doing here? That’s the one burning question debated along the highways when men ‘meet and make their manners.’”
“Well,” laughed Spurrier, “what is he doing here?”
Cappeze shrugged his bent shoulders as he knocked the rubble from his pipe and a quizzical twinkle came into his eyes.
“So far as I can make out, sir, he’s as much a gentleman of leisure as you are yourself.”
Spurrier knew what an excellent subterfuge may sometimes lie in frankness, and now he had recourse to its concealment.
“Good heavens, Mr. Cappeze, I’m no idler!” he declared. “I’m associated with capitalists who work me like a mule. Since I saw you, for example, I’ve been in Russia and I’ve been hard-driven. That’s why I come here. If I couldn’t get absolutely away from it all now and then, I’d soon be ready for a madhouse. Here I can forget all that and keep fit.”
Cappeze nodded. “That’s just about the way I sized you up. At first, folks pondered about you, too, but now they take you on faith.”
“I hope so—and this new man? Has he stepped on anybody’s toes?”
“Not yet. He hasn’t even bought any land, but there have been some several transfers of property, in other names, since he came. He may be some man’s silent partner.”