"Oh, I've kept a pretty close inquiry afoot. I'm told the men won't go."
"Why not?"
"Madame Beattie won't let them."
"The devil she won't! What's the old witch's spell?"
"I don't know. Esther—" he caught himself up—"Mrs. Blake doesn't know. She only knows, as I tell you, the men come to the house, and talk things over. And I hear from reliable sources, Weedie summons them and the men simply won't go. So I assume Madame Beattie forbids it."
"It's not possible." Jeff had withdrawn his gaze from the old playground and sat staring thoughtfully at his legs, stretched to their fullest length. "I rather wish I could talk with her," he said, "Madame Beattie. I don't see how I can though, unless I go there."
"Jeff," said Alston, earnestly, "you mustn't do that."
He spoke unguardedly, and now that the words were out, he would have recalled them. But he made the best of a rash matter, and when Jeff frowned up at him, met the look with one as steady.
"Why mustn't I?" asked Jeff.
It was very quietly said.