“Sure, I remember, but I’m not holdin’ it agin him now. A dead horse is a dead horse, an’ I don’t go sniffin’ it.”
“Perhaps I ought to say, though,” Grant returned, “that I really do not know how the iron pegs got into that meadow.”
“And I don’t know how your haystacks got afire, but I can guess. Remember Drazk? A little locoed, an’ just the crittur to pull off a fool stunt like that. When the fire swept up the valley, instead of down, he made his get-away and has never been seen since. I reckon likely there was someone in Landson’s gang capable o’ drivin’ pegs without consultin’ the boss.”
The little group were standing in the shadow and Grant had no opportunity to notice the sudden blanching of Zen’s face at the mention of Drazk.
“You’re wrong about his not having been seen again, Y.D.,” said Grant. “He managed to locate me somewhere in France. That reminds me, he had a message for you, Mrs. Transley. I’m afraid Drazk is as irresponsible as ever, provided he hasn’t passed out, which is more than likely.”
Grant shook hands cordially with Y.D. and his wife, with Squiggs and Mrs. Squiggs, with Transley and Mrs. Transley. Any inclination he may have felt to linger over Zen’s hand was checked by her quick withdrawal of it, and there was something in her manner quite beyond his understanding. He could have sworn that the self-possessed Zen Transley was actually trembling.
CHAPTER XIX
The next day Wilson paid his usual visit to the field where Grant was plowing, and again was he the bearer of a message. With much difficulty he managed to extricate the envelope from a pocket.
“Dear Mr. Grant,” it read, “I am so excited over a remark you dropped last night I must see you again as soon as possible. Can you drop in to-night, say at eight. Yours,—ZEN.”