"That's my business, not yours."
A snaky, malevolent smile crossed Murgatroyd's smooth face.
"It may be my business, too," said he. "You asked for the Traquair homestead. Is it your intention to go there?"
"I don't care to discuss that point with you. Just understand that you'll be called on to answer for all the trouble you have caused me and also Mrs. Traquair. This scoundrelly attack on my aëroplane will come in for part of the accounting."
"Yes?" was the sarcastic response. "The machine, to look at it from here, hasn't the appearance of being very badly hurt. Suppose we give it a closer inspection?"
Matt wondered at the man's desire to learn more about the damage to the aëroplane. It was an hour or so before the reason was made clear to him.
Keeping a wary eye on Murgatroyd's rifle, Matt stepped over to the aëroplane.
The bullet had struck one of the propeller blades, snapping it off. The blade, in turn, had struck and cut through one of the small wire cables that formed a stay for the rear rudder.
"You've put the machine out of business," said Matt. "The fall, too, may have damaged the motor pretty seriously. I can't tell that until I make a closer examination."
"It will take you an hour or two, I suppose, to get the machine repaired?"