She put a shawl over her head and ran swiftly down through the chill November weather to the draw-bars, where in the big road outside Turrentine slouched against a post waiting for her. The man spoke over his shoulder.
“Howdy, Jude—you did come at last.”
“Ef yo’ goin’ to say anything to me, you’ll have to be mighty quick, Blatch,” she notified him, shivering. “I got to get right back.”
“They’s somebody new—and yet not so new—a-visitin’ in the Turkey Tracks that you’d like to know of,” he prompted coolly. “Ain’t that so?”
“Huldy,” she gasped, her dark eyes fixed upon his grey ones.
He nodded.
“I ’lowed you’d take an intrust in that thar business, an’ I thort as a friend you ort to be told of it,” he added virtuously.
“Where’s she at?” demanded Judith.
“Over at my house,” announced Turrentine easily, with a backward jerk of his head.
“At yo’ house!” echoed Judith; “at yo’ house! Why, hit ain’t decent.”