“I do not say so, do I, senor?” the servant replied, deprecatingly.
“No, but you heard—or did you hear?—this visitor say it!”
The Cuban, almost tearfully, denied it, becoming verbose in his protestation.
Defoe flapped his arms on the wings of his easy chair and bade his valet hush.
“Get out of here, you brown-skinned dumbbell! One of us has gone crazy tonight!”
The Cuban moved off, keeping a suspicious eye upon his master. His retreating footstep presently was heard dying away in the hall outside.
“Well, what do you think of that damned little Cuban?” Defoe asked the Voice. “I wonder what made him lie so brazenly?”
There was no response. Defoe repeated his second question.
Still silence answered him.
“Have you gone, my friend?” Defoe asked, turning part way in his chair to test the other’s watchfulness. This time no automatic punched his head and no command wilted him into the depths of his chair again.