“You mean follered you? What’d he want to do——?”
“Is he still in his car?” interrupted Bill.
“I reckon so; think I saw four fellers in it. They can keep warm there and every now and then run their engine a bit to keep her from freezin’ up.”
“They’ll be drifted in, won’t they?”
“Reckon not, with a big car like that; and the storm’s goin’ to quit.”
“But that won’t let us go on to-night. And what is that Italian up to?” Bill dismissed the subject with Merritt, but resolved to tell Gus, though not Tony, as it would put a damper on their friend’s peace of mind. What harm could come of Malatesta’s being here? He could not approach the house without alarming the Farrell dog and that was assurance enough. And Bill could not help being doubtful as to the Sicilian’s being really dangerous. There might be such a thing as carrying this grudge business to extremes, but hardly here and in this storm.
Bill and Gus spent the night in the best spare room, under the heavy covers of an immense fourposter. They slept through the cold night like inanimate objects. Tony, alone, occupied a room which had evidently been that of an only son who had gone away to the Great War to remain away forever. There was crape hanging over the frame of a picture showing a sturdy, manly looking fellow in khaki. From the appearance of things, Tony, also, should have passed a comfortable night. Merritt was tucked away to his entire satisfaction.