Lombard chuckled oddly, with a mischievous gleam in his narrow eyes. He drew from his pocket a black bag, replying a bit dryly:
“I’m the same gazabo and here’s the same bandage that you wore. If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Garland, I will slip it over your block as before.”
“It’s not all the same, by any means, but I suppose I must stand for it,” Nick protested.
“Stand for it is right,” said Lombard, rising. “I have to guard against your putting anything over on us. Safety first, you know. If you had the use of your lamps, you might serve us some scurvy trick sooner or later.”
“As scurvy a trick, perhaps, as you rascals are serving me,” Nick retorted.
“That’s not half bad,” Lombard returned. “We’re letting you down easy. Some ginks would bleed you to a standstill. You’re playing dead lucky, Mr. Garland.”
“That’s not my opinion.”
“The which has not been asked for.”
“Are we going to the same place as before?”
“That’s what.”