“Is it green?” inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn’t given the matter any special consideration, but thought it quite possible.
“Emerald,” said I. “It looks as if it were mortifying.”
“It would be mortifying,” admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, “if it weren’t in a good cause.”
“What cause?” I asked.
“Come out of there!” said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figure lurking in the shrubbery.
The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctive feature.
“You, too!” I said. “What do you mean by it?”
“Ask Cyrus,” returned the Little Red Doctor glumly.
“It’s a cult,” said Cyrus. “The credit of the notion belongs not to me, but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen souls—”
“Here comes another of them,” I conjectured, as a bowed form approached. “Who is it? MacLachan!”