“Who isn’t here?” demanded Gerald with a fine show of irritability. “Can’t you see he isn’t here? Who the dickens do you want, anyhow?”
“Maybe he did sneak downstairs, after all,” someone suggested. “We’ll get him when he comes back, fellows.”
“All right,” said Johnson. “Abject apologies for disturbing you, Pennimore, but the law must be enforced, you know.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Go as far as you like, but close the door after you.”
The door closed and the footfalls died away up the stairs. After a minute:
“Come out, Mr. Rabbit,” said Gerald softly. “The hounds have gone.”
There was a scuffling under Kendall’s bed and, feet first, the quarry emerged. “Much obliged,” he panted. “Are you sure they’ve gone?”
“Mm; fairly sure. I’ll lock the door, anyhow. Sit down and recover your savoir faire, whatever that is. You must be a newcomer, Mr. Rabbit. I don’t recall your features.”
“Yes, I—I came last week,” replied the other, seating himself on the foot of the bed and brushing the dust from his clothes. He had eyes that, for want of a better word, might be called hazel, and the rims were inflamed; Gerald decided, however, that the redness was not from too much poring over text-books, for the youth didn’t look like that sort. He was lanky, ungainly and none too attractive. His mouth was unpleasant and his face didn’t look quite clean. And the red-rimmed eyes had a sly look in them very unlike a rabbit’s. In age he seemed about seventeen.
“May I ask,” continued Gerald, “why the gentlemen were so eager to discover you?”