"You idiot!" said Guild sharply as Darrel strolled up, his features blandly defiant.
"Go on with what you were saying to Michaud," insisted Darrel, unruffled by his reception.
"Come, Harry—this is downright damn foolishness. If you've let the waggon go on, you'll have to foot it to Quellenheim. You can't stay here!"
"Why?"
"Because, you infernal butter-in, you'll get mixed up in a particularly nasty mess. And it doesn't concern Yankees, this mess we're in, Michaud and I."
"Oh hell!" said Darrel; "go on and talk, Michaud!"
"Are you going to poke your nose into this?" demanded Guild.
"It's in now."
"See here, Harry! Your sticking by me is gratuitously silly and it annoys me. You don't have to. This isn't any of your business, this mess."
Darrel lighted a cigarette and sat down on the terrace steps. Guild glared at him.