“I think he will be glad to see me,” said the unknown, and, without further comment, he ran up the steps and entered the veranda. The two men watched him in silence. They saw him halt in front of the window, and heard him say, “Power, may I come in?” They heard the scraping of a chair on the parquet floor as it was thrust aside; then the stranger vanished.
“Who’s the dook?” demanded Jake, vastly surprised by the turn of events.
“Friend o’ Derry’s,” said MacGonigal, sotto voce. “He wired me from Newport, an’ his messages struck me as comin’ from a white man; so I gev’ him the fax, an’ the nex’ thing I hear is that he’s on the rail, but I’m to keep mum, as he thought it ’ud help Derry some if he kem on him suddint. An’ here he is.”
During a full minute neither man spoke. At last, Jake, who appeared to have something on his mind, brought it out.
“Thar was a piece ’bout Derry and Mrs. Marten in the Rocky Mountain News a week sence,” he began.
“Thar was,” agreed MacGonigal, who looked vastly uncomfortable in a suit of heavy black cloth.
“Not anything ter make a song of,” went on Jake. “An or’nary kind o’ yarn, ’bout a point-ter-point steeplechase, whatever that sort o’ flam may be, an’ Bison won, in course.”
“Jest so,” said the other.
“Guess you spotted it, too?”
“Guess I did.”