“You’re a visitor I did not expect, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said. “I expected someone worse. You’ve interfered a bit with my plans but I don’t know that I can’t rearrange things satisfactorily. I don’t think I’ll stop for supper, though—” He glanced at the girl, who stood silent by the door.
“Just pack up the provisions,” he directed, nodding toward the basket—“in the next room.”
She departed without a word.
“That’s a noticeable dust coat you’re wearing, Mr. Cavanagh,” said the American; “it gives me a great notion. I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow it.”
He glanced, smiling, at the revolver in his left hand and back again to me. There was nothing of the bully about him, nothing melodramatic; but I took off the coat without demur and threw it across to him.
“It will hide this stump,” he said grimly; “and any of the Hashishin gentlemen who may be on the look-out—though I rather fancy the road is clear at the moment—will mistake me for you. See the idea? Carneta will be in a cab and I’ll be in after her and away before they’ve got time to so much as whistle.”
Very awkwardly he got into the coat.
“She’s a clever girl, Carneta,” he said. “She’s doctored me all along since those devils cut my hand off.”
As he finished speaking Carneta returned.
She had discarded her rags and wore a large travelling coat and a fashionable hat.