Reginald Rayton turned and strode away without waiting for an answer to his last long speech. He was angry—hot and cold with it, from his head to his feet. He had been excited into a premature disclosure of his sentiments toward Nell Harley. He had been talked to like a fool—and he had talked like a fool. He was furious. He felt the need of some one to punch and kick. It was years since he had last been in such a wax. And this was his mood when Doctor Nash appeared over the brow of a hill in front, driving toward him in a mud-splashed buggy. Nash drew rein within a yard of the Englishman. The Englishman halted. Nash leaned forward, and grinned.
"That was a good one, last night," he remarked. "A good joke on old Wigmore; but I don't quite see the point of it. Do you?"
"No. Is there supposed to be any point?" returned Rayton.
"Sure! What d'ye think it's all about if there isn't a point to it? You fellows are lobsters, I must say, if you are still cloudy on that business. Those marks are warnings—oh, yes! But they are not sent by Fate. They are sort of 'keep off the grass' signs issued and posted by a very dear friend of yours. Last night he felt my eye on him, and so threw the bluff. It worked pretty well, too. It had me guessing for about an hour; and then I thought it over after I went to bed, and got it all straight and clear."
"I am glad that some one has it straight and clear," said Rayton. "I am in the dark, myself; but I agree with you that the deal to Wigmore was a bluff. I am positive about this because a marked card came to me twice before supper."
Nash uttered a derisive whistle, then slapped his knee with an open hand.
"I might have guessed it!" he cried. "So it's your turn, is it? Keep off the grass, Reginald. Good old Jim! He knows what he's about."
"What are you driving at?" demanded the Englishman. "What has Jim to do with it?"
He had heard the doctor's theory before, but wanted first-hand proof of it—and he was looking for an excuse for letting loose.
"What has Jim to do with it?" repeated Nash sneeringly. "Why, you lobster, he has everything to do with it. He's it! What's your head made of, anyway? A block out of the oak walls of old England, I suppose."