VIII
THE CRYING OF THE PUMA
Montgomery interrupted my tangle of mystification and suspicion about one, and his grotesque attendant followed him with a tray bearing bread, some herbs, and other eatables, a flask of whisky, a jug of water, and three glasses and knives. I glanced askance at this strange creature, and found him watching me with his queer restless eyes. Montgomery said he would lunch with me, but that Moreau was too preoccupied with some work to come.
"Moreau!" said I; "I know that name."
"The devil you do!” said he. "What an ass I was to mention it to you. I might have thought. Anyhow, it will give you an inkling of our—mysteries. Whisky?"
"No thanks—I'm an abstainer."
"I wish I'd been. But it's no use locking the door after the steed is stolen. It was that infernal stuff led to my coming here. That and a foggy night. I thought myself in luck at the time when Moreau offered to get me off. It's queer.…"
"Montgomery," said I suddenly, as the outer door closed; "why has your man pointed ears?"
"Damn!" he said, over his first mouthful of food. He stared at me for a moment, and then repeated, "Pointed ears?"
"Little points to them," said I as calmly as possi-
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