The enigmatic reply puzzled Chester Munson—not only the words themselves, but the tremor of deep emotion in the voice of Ricardo Robles as he gave them utterance.
CHAPTER XXVII—Among the Old Oaks
PIERRE, now my sketches and plans are finished, how am I going to pass the time?” It was some ten days after the affair at La Siesta, and Dick had spent the interval in close and absorbed work over his drawing board. Happy in his occupation, he had not felt the restraints of confinement.
But now that the task was completed, and the big cardboard cylinder containing the set of drawings rested on the ledge of the easel all ready to be sent away on its mission, a feeling of chafing restlessness had ensued.
“Good Lord, a fellow can’t read all day,” Dick went on, half in soliloquy, half addressing his companion.
“Monsieur is comfortable here?” asked the latter solicitously.
“I should say, old fellow. I was never in better quarters in all my life.”
“And zere is nothing more I could get for ze table?”