“I wonder if Perkins happens to know any of those Eastern lingos?”
The man’s face underwent a swift change. There was fear in it now. He ground his heel nervously into the soil, while the big fingers clenched tight. There was in his manner that which suggested a new anxiety, and for the moment he seemed oddly helpless.
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Derrick, but if I may make so bold, I wouldn’t try. She’s a queer woman, and”—here he touched his forehead meaningly—“she’s best left alone. Mr. Millicent never bothered her, and he knew her well.”
Derrick nodded. “You may be right. Where are you putting your visitor to-night?”
“On the floor in the kitchen, sir; he says that’s good enough for him. He’s about used up and asked if he might rest for another day or two. Showed me his feet. They’re in bad shape. I told him it was for you to say.”
Derrick felt a quickening of his pulse. Once again everything fitted in. The peddler would stay, but not on account of sore feet. He pressed his fingers against the image in his pocket, but his mind sped to the dark recess where the real god stared malevolently into the darkness and waited till his servants should gather at his baffling summons. Then he glanced at Martin, experiencing a throb of pity for one who was so secretly tortured. He began to see how the man must already have suffered, anticipating the inevitable, paying in advance, with the pangs of two years, part of the price of a blow that took place in a second. But there was no room now for compassion.
“Did you happen to see the inside of the peddler’s pack?” he asked carelessly.
Martin shook his head. “No, sir, he won’t trouble to show that to the likes of me.”
“I don’t know! I’d ask him if I were you, and have a look at them. They’ll probably remind you of a good many places you ought to know. Also I think I’d keep an eye on him to-night.”
“He’s all right so far as that’s concerned,” put in the gardener hastily.