“I don’t see the man with the cough,” said he to the landlord.
“Mr. Shaw, I suppose you mean.”
“Sort of a worn-out looking fellow,” said Bat, carelessly.
“Mr. Shaw met with a small but rather painful accident,” said the landlord. “It happened last night; he scratched and bruised himself by falling into one of my hot-bed glasses, which some one left carelessly in the way.”
“I see,” said Bat. “Glass hurt much?”
“About all broken,” said the innkeeper laconically. “But I can’t understand who could have been touching it, and why.”
Mr. Scanlon felt that he could enlighten the hotel man upon both these points, but he judged it best to keep the matter to himself. Here the man with the crutch stumped away into the hotel, and in a few moments the landlord followed. The saffron-hued man turned his dark glasses upon Scanlon.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, “but I had not noticed you before. Are you a guest of the house?”
“No,” replied Bat. “Not yet.”
“I was recommended here,” said the man. “Just came yesterday. I find that most of the guests are here for a purpose.”