“To-morrow? You’ll see him to-night, Pearse. At dinner—in a few minutes, now. He might come in any time.”
She hurried over to the little window and stood nervously pushing the vine lattice aside so that she saw the spring, the stream, the little bridge that led across to the bunk house. And at the instant she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing and whirled, crying:
“Pearse—there’s Uncle Hank, now! Come on.”
“All right—tell you all about it on the way up,” Pearse said almost desperately, and while they hurried stumblingly, through the dark cellar, he talked in hasty, broken sentences.
“What! What!” Hilda cried out. Then, “Oh, if I’d only known when you were here before—if you’d only told me then!”
She clutched his hand and pulled him close after her. Both of them flushed, excited, they ran across the kitchen and came in behind Uncle Hank in the hall, moving toward the open door of the office just ahead. As Hilda, still drawing Pearse with her, followed, and pulled the door shut behind them, her call rang out strangely:
“He’s here, Uncle Hank! He’s come!”
CHAPTER XXXII
AN ARRIVAL
In the office Hank faced sharply around, and the tall men stood looking at each other; there was a moment of silence, in which the cooing of Sam Kee’s pigeons could be heard. Hilda was breathing short.
“I—I thought maybe you’d know him,” she faltered at last, and Uncle Hank looked from one of them to the other in astonishment.