“What are you doing here?” They were the first words spoken by the man on the lounge and they rang with a curt challenge.
“Come to inquire after the health of my dear cousin,” came the prompt silken answer.
“You villain!”
“My dear cousin, y’u speak with such conviction that y’u almost persuade me. But of course if I’m a villain I’ve got to live up to my reputation. Haven’t I, Miss Messiter?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to live it down?” she asked with a quietness that belied her terror. For there had been in his manner a threat, not against her but against the man whom her heart acknowledged as her lover.
He laughed. “Y’u’re still hoping to make a Sunday school superintendent out of me, I see. Y’u haven’t forgot all your schoolmarm ways yet, but I’ll teach y’u to forget them.”
The other cousin watched him with a cool, quiet glance that never wavered. The outlaw was heavily armed, but his weapons were sheathed, and, though there was a wary glitter behind the vindictive exultation in his eyes, his capable hands betrayed no knowledge of the existence of his revolvers. It was, he knew, to be a moral victory, if one at all.
“Hope I’m not disturbing any happy family circle,” he remarked, and, taking two limping steps forward, he lifted the book from the girl’s unresisting hands. “H’m! Barrie. I don’t go much on him. He’s too sissy for me. But I could have guessed the other Ned Bannister would be reading something like that,” he concluded, a flicker of sneering contempt crossing his face.
“Perhaps y’u’ll learn some time to attend to your own business,” said the man on the couch quietly.
Hatred gleamed in the narrowed slits from which the soul of the other cousin looked down at him. “I’m a philanthropist, and my business is attending to other people’s. They raise sheep, for instance, and I market them.”