The man darted a keen glance at him. “At Rozsnyo? No. My quarters are at a little inn. A wretched place frequented only by woodcutters and charcoal burners. But what would you have?” he added with a shrug. “Sport does not always go with comfort.”
“Its absence makes the zest for sport all the keener,” Von Tressen remarked.
“If that is your opinion,” the stranger returned, “I shall not perhaps be wrong in hazarding a guess that the tent I have seen hereabouts forms your shooting quarters.”
“You are quite right,” Galabin replied. “We follow our pleasure gipsy fashion. If you would stroll back with us and join our mid-day meal we should be honoured. Our little encampment is but a stone’s throw from here, and your inn must be some distance.”
The man bowed with an excess of courtesy. “The honour is mine,” he responded. “I shall be charmed, if I am not putting you to inconvenience. My inn is far from here, and, apart from that, to a lonely man the chance of a chat in congenial company is not to be despised.”
He shouldered his gun and they turned down the hill again. Walking with a quick, impatient stride, their new acquaintance seemed now a restless, energetic man, and this made his late motionless, patient attitude the more unaccountable.
“The Schloss Rozsnyo,” he said presently, in his abrupt quick way, “it is a fine place, but in a curious situation here in this wild forest. You know it?”
“We have been there,” Galabin answered.
“Inside?”
“We spent a couple of hours there yesterday.”