In his distress and overwhelming mortification, Darragh stood miserable, mute, irresolute.
Stormont seemed to understand: "What you did, Jim, was well meant," he said. "I understand. Eve will understand when I tell her. But that fellow Quintana is a devil. You can't draw a herring across any trail he follows. I tell you, Jim, this fellow Quintana is either blood-mad or just plain crazy. Somebody will have to put him out of the way. I'll do it if I ever find him."
"Yes. … You people ought to do that. … Or, if you like, I'll volunteer. … I've a little business to transact in New York, first. … Jack, your tunic an breeches are soaked; I'll be glad to chip in something for Eve. … Wait a moment——"
He stepped into cover, drew the morocco box from his grey shirt, shoved it into his hip pocket.
Then he threw off his cartridge belt and hunting coat, pulled the grey shirt over his head and came out in his undershirt and breeches, with the other garments hanging over his arm.
"Give her these," he said. "She can button the coat around her waist for a skirt. She'd better go somewhere and get out of that soaking wet night-dress——"
Eve, crouched on the sand, trying to wring out and twist up her drenched hair, looked up at Stormont as he came toward her holding our Darragh's dry clothing.
"You'd better do what you can with these," he said, trying to speak carelessly. … "He says you'd better chuck — what you're wearing——"
She nodded in flushed comprehension. Stormont walked back to his horse, his boots slopping water at every stride.
"I don't know any place nearer than Ghost Lake Inn," he said … "except
Harrod's."