“I don't know.”
“Nor I. Mr.—er—Brooks—Or shall I still call you 'Brown'?”
“No. Brown is dead; drowned. Let him stay so.”
“Very well. Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is a peculiar character? That he acts peculiarly?”
“He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him. But to what particular peculiarity do you refer?”
“His queer behavior. Several times I have seen him—I am almost sure it was he—hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of our bungalow.”
“You have? Why, I—”
He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in a deluge. They reached the porch just in time.
“Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry,” she panted. “I'm afraid you will be drenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?”
“No. No, indeed, thank you.”