The Count raised his eyebrows, and plunged forward his head in surprise. “Inquisitive? About sport?”
“About everything.”
“So? A strange fellow, almost suspicious. May I ask if so humble a person as myself had the honour of awakening his curiosity?”
“Oh, yes,” Galabin answered pleasantly, “The mysterious one asked several questions about you, Count.”
The grin widened, as usual not with mirth.
“So? And doubtless about the only other dwellers in these parts—our friends at the farm?”
“A question or two.”
Between scheming thought and an affectation of amused indifference Zarka was a study.
“I am inclined to be suspicious of the man,” he said. “Did his questions seem merely prompted by idle curiosity, or to have some intent behind them?”
Galabin laughed; he was rather enjoying their visitor’s uneasiness. “It is hard to say, Count,” he answered slily, “since many people have a trick of pretending to be less in earnest than they really are. Certainly your friend seemed eager to know all we could tell him, but that may have been the effect of an exaggerated manner.”