“Get in,” he directed.
“If we had to do this, Kent,” said Sedgwick, shuddering in his seat, “why haven’t we done it before?”
The other turned on the power. “You’re on the wrong track as usual,” he remarked. “It couldn’t be done before.”
“Well, it can’t be done now,” cried the artist in sudden sharp excitement. “It won’t do. Stop the car, Kent!”
Kent’s voice took an ominously deliberate measure. “Listen,” said he; “I am going through with this—now—to-night. If you wish to withdraw—”
“That’s enough,” growled the artist. “No man alive can say that to me.”
The car slowed up. “I beg your pardon, Frank,” said Kent. “We’re both of us a little on edge to-night. This is no time for misunderstandings. What is on your mind?”
“Just this. Annalaka burying-ground is watched. Lawyer Bain said as much. Don’t you remember? He told us that the house next door is occupied by an old sleepless asthmatic who spends half her nights in her window overlooking the graves.”
The car shot forward again. “Is that all?” asked Kent.
“Isn’t it enough?”