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"Unfortunately," said Mary, "he has to go to Albany this afternoon, I believe." "To resume our conversation, Mrs. Marne," said Peter. "I shouldn't if I were you," Hare recommended. "If memory serves, it was hardly worth it. Why not, instead, permit me to tell the story of the seven fat men of Kilgore?" McTosh, of the gum-shoe tread, shuffled courses dextrously.
"Oh, my Gawd, sir!" breathed McTosh. But his young master was on his feet like a tiger, in a whirl of crazy passion. He had resolved all along that Hammerton would have to kill him before he should get away with that secret. Now it came to him like a divine revelation that the way to avoid this was to kill Hammerton.
Above forward, on a coil of rope, McTosh, the head steward and one of Mr. Carstairs's oldest servants, smoked a bad pipe, and expectorated stoically into the Hudson. The thought of the essential commonplaceness of this sort of thing recurred to Peter Maginnis.
A sudden dumbness seized Tommy. His head slowly lowered and he did not answer. Around the deck-house from the port-side hurried McTosh, his arm embracing a bundle of papers, his brow beady with the honest toil of speed wrung out of country paths. "Ah, steward! You made good time. Ask Mr. Maginnis if he won't come on deck when he is at leisure. Thomas, you're for the shore, aren't you?
Varney stretched and yawned. "Well, he isn't." "Doubtless I am a stupid ass and all that," said Peter, staring, "but with the Gazette publishing it about the countryside that you are a yellow dog of the worst nature, I don't grasp how you expect Miss Carstairs to come on this yacht and lunch with you." A knock sounded on the stateroom door, and McTosh entered, announcing two telegrams for Mr.
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