Croyden halted, abruptly, just out of distance.
“Croyden is my name?” he replied, interrogatingly.
“With your permission, I will accompany you to your house—to which I assume you are bound—for a few moments’ private conversation.”
“Concerning what?” Croyden demanded.
“Concerning a matter of business.”
“My business or yours?”
“Both!” said the man, with a smile.
Croyden eyed him suspiciously. He was about thirty years of age, tall and slender, was well dressed, in dark clothes, a light weight top-coat, and a derby hat. His face was ordinary, however, 198 and Croyden had no recollection of ever having seen it—certainly not in Hampton.
“I’m not in the habit of discussing business with strangers, at night, nor of taking them to my house,” he answered, brusquely. “If you have anything to say to me, say it now, and be brief. I’ve no time to waste.”
“Some one may hear us,” the man objected.