Miss Ocky pursed her lips in a soft, almost inaudible whistle. She was thinking back to the expression on her brother-in-law's face when this man's name was mentioned. Simon had been afraid! And here was Leslie Sherwood expressing, not fear, but—but what?
"Any one would think you hated the poor man," she suggested at length.
"That," said Mr. Sherwood, "exactly expresses my feeling toward him."
"But—but, Leslie—" Miss Ocky was groping for the truth back of all this—"I don't understand! Why do you hate a man you haven't even seen for over twenty years?"
"Some hates have very lasting qualities, Ocky. They endure for ever and a day."
"Then—whatever it was—happened before you left here?"
"Yes. Simon came between me and something that I wanted—and did it in a way that made a mortal enemy of me. Sounds theatrical, doesn't it? But it's true. He contrived at the same time to cause the trouble between me and my father that has kept me from returning to Hambleton until now, when the old gentleman has ended with worldly cares."
"I wish you'd tell me the whole story in words of one syllable," begged Miss Ocky. "It's not that I'm just curious. I'm trying to learn all that I can about Simon. He interests me as a—as a specimen."
"I would hardly have told you as much if I weren't willing to tell you all. I'm puzzling over a problem that might be simplified by a woman's wit. We can't talk here, though. Too public."
"Suppose you escort me home. I've a torch, and I'm going up this short-cut. We can chat on the way." She glanced downhill. "This excitement is about over; shall we start?"