“I s’pose you know I’ll have to arrest you, just the same.”
“Don’t bluff,” retorted the other carelessly. “It wastes time. Steady! Here comes the rest of the party.”
Across the moonlit lawn moved briskly the spare alert figure of the owner of Hedgerow House. His hand grasped a long-barreled pistol. He made straight for the grove of graves. Within five yards of the willows he stopped, because a voice from behind one of them had suggested to him that he do so.
“I also am armed,” the voice added.
Hesitancy flickered in Mr. Blair’s face for a brief moment. Then, with set jaw, he came on.
“Two men of courage to deal with in a single night. That’s all out of proportion,” commented the voice with a slight laugh. “Mr. Blair; I really should dislike shooting you.”
“Who are you?” demanded Mr. Blair.
“Chester Kent.”
“What are you doing on my property at this hour?”
“Digging.”