"
"Then I don't know what has become of him," Kelson returned, manifestly
not interested in the subject. "I certainly should not keep open any
longer. If Mr. Henshaw turns up at an unreasonable hour, let him wait and
get in when he can. Don't you think so, Hugh?"
Gifford nodded. "I think, considering the hour, Mr. Dipper will be quite
justified in locking up," he answered.
"Thank you, gentlemen; I will. Goodnight," and the landlord departed.
Kelson turned to a side table and poured out a drink.
"Decent fellow, Dipper, and uniformly obliging," he said. "I certainly
don't see why he should be inconvenienced and kept out of his bed by that
swanker, who has probably gone off with some pal and hasn't had the
decency to leave word to that effect. Bad style of man altogether. Hullo!
What's this?"
"What's the matter?"
Gifford crossed to Kelson, who was looking at his shirt-cuff.
"What's this?"
A dark red streak was on the white linen.
"Hanged if it doesn't look like blood," Kelson said, holding it to
the light.
Gifford caught his arm and scrutinized the stain.
"It is blood," he said positively.
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