Kavalov and Ringgo were smoking cigars, Mrs. Ringgo and I cigarettes over crème de menthe when the red-faced blonde woman in gray wool came in.
She came in hurriedly. Her eyes were wide open and dark. She said:
“Anthony says there’s a fire in the upper field.”
Kavalov crunched his cigar between his teeth and looked pointedly at me.
I stood up, asking:
“How do I get there?”
“I’ll show you the way,” Ringgo said, leaving his chair.
“Dolph,” his wife protested, “your arm.”
He smiled gently at her and said:
“I’m not going to interfere. I’m only going along to see how an expert handles these things.”