“Not Mr. Pennington!”
“That is my name,” returned the man. “And now,” with a quick look toward the kitchen, where, judging by the sounds that came from it, a very stormy interview was taking place, “give me the message sent by Abdallah. I have been trying to get into communication with him, but could not do so. I had no notion of what had happened until I heard some fragments of the story from this loud-mouthed soldier.”
The landlord’s voice now came from the kitchen in loud denial.
“I tell you, sir, I know nothing of the gentleman you ask for.”
“And I tell you that you do. Don’t think to pull the wool over my eyes. Give me full information of this Master Pennington, or I’ll spit you on this skewer and toast you over your own fire.”
“I do not pretend to understand anything that has happened,” said Pennington to Ezra, swiftly and very low. “You’ll have your own good time to explain all that. But,” with a fearful glance at the kitchen door, “the matter of the dispatch which Abdallah gave you is perhaps urgent. And all the more so from being delayed.”
The uproar in the kitchen, if such a thing were possible, grew louder. But Ezra paid no heed to it.
“It is impossible for me to turn the paper over to you now,” he answered quietly.
The man stared at him.
“And why?” he asked.