“It is all right, Covell,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Covell did not, apparently, recognize him even then. He stood still and tried to peer under the shade of the Griffin hatbrim.
“Who is it?” he repeated, his tone still sharply anxious.
Bob pushed back the hat. “Griffin,” he answered. “It is all right. Nothing to be frightened about.”
Covell took a step toward him. “Eh?” he queried. “What—? Oh, it is you, is it! I couldn’t see.” Then, after a moment, he added: “What are you doing here?”
The tone in which the question was put was neither pleasant nor polite. There was resentment in it and suspicion, so it seemed to Griffin. He was strongly tempted to counter with an inquiry of his own, for surely his presence at that spot at that time was not more out of the ordinary than Seymour Covell’s. His explanation was easy to give, however, so he gave it.
“Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I have been down at my shanty, the one I use as a studio, and I was walking back when I saw these horses standing here. I wondered, at first, whose they were and then why they had been left here at this time of night. So I stopped for a minute to investigate, that is all.”
The explanation was complete and truthful, but Covell seemed to find it far from satisfactory.
“Humph!” he grunted, still scrutinizing Griffin intently and with a frown. “That is all, is it? You weren’t here for any particular reason, then?”
“No. Why should I be?”