“It was clear enough. It shouted some rigmarole about Parson Lolly. ‘Parson Lolly’s here,’ or ‘Look out for Parson Lolly,’ or something of the kind.”
“What do you make of it? It worries Crofts severely.”
“Do you wonder? No, I don’t profess to make anything of it myself. We must wait until we have more evidence.”
“Which may be most unpleasant.”
“Oh, as for being afraid . . .”
We paused, I remember, by one of the large french windows looking into the Hall of the Moth. At the table nearest us Cosgrove carefully noted down the score. He picked up the pack, shuffled deliberately, dealt. The cards flew bewilderingly from his hand like a flock of humming-birds released from a cage; they swirled and gleamed in the light. Yet Cosgrove’s arms were motionless; only his right hand and wrist moved as swift as the eye could conveniently follow.
“Cosgrove,” murmured Maryvale; “what a man!”
“What do you mean?”
My companion’s surprise was thoroughly ingenuous. “You don’t know about Sean Cosgrove?”
“I don’t know much about any Irishman.”