But he looked
awful, somehow. It was just one of my little waking visions I've told
you of, I suppose."
The girl was silent; but the old lady saw her suddenly straighten
herself.
"Just ask him whether he did look in, after all. It may just have been
the shadow on his face."
"What time was it?"
"About ten past eight, I suppose, dearest. You'll ask him, won't you?"
"Yes, Auntie.... I think I'd better lock your door when I go out. You
won't fancy such things then, will you?"
"Very well, dearest. As you think best."
The old voice was becoming sleepy again: and Maggie stood watching a
moment or two longer.
"Send Charlotte to me, dearest.... Good night, my pet.... I'm too
sleepy again. My love to Laurie."
"Yes, Auntie."
The old lady felt the girl's warm lips on her forehead. They seemed to
linger a little. Then Mrs. Baxter lost herself once more.
IV
The public bar of the Wheatsheaf Inn was the scene this evening of a
lively discussion. Some thought the old gentleman, arrived that day
from London, to be a new kind of commercial traveler, with designs
upon the gardens of the gentry; others that he was a sort of
scientific collector; others, again, that he was a private detective;
and since there was no evidence at all, good or bad, in support of any
one of these suggestions, a very pretty debate became possible.
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