“A friend of mine,” replied Bat. “He’s stopping over at the inn. Only had the pleasure of meeting him this morning, but I will say for him that he has one of the most picturesque livers in captivity.”
The German only looked grim.
“This,” said he, “is private property.”
“My name is Flood,” said Ashton-Kirk, huskily. “And I am sorry to trespass.”
“When you reach the edge of our domain in going back, be sure to wipe your shoes,” admonished Scanlon. “We wouldn’t care to have you take any of it away with you.”
The man with a yellow face smiled.
“Well, good-day, Mr. Scanlon,” said he. “I think I’ll make my way back to the inn. You have been very kind.”
“Not at all,” said Bat, with a wave of the hand. “Glad to do any little thing I can for you at any time.”
The fictitious Mr. Flood, saffron-hued, blue-spectacled and stiff-gaited, moved away, taking a path which soon hid him from view behind the rising ground.
Kretz now turned to Scanlon.