At this moment the hall door was opened by a tall dark woman in a mackintosh and motor cap, with two frantic fox-terriers on the lead, and a self-possessed French bulldog in dignified attendance.
“I’m afraid you’ve been waiting,” she said, in a soft brogue. “I was away at the kennels, the servants were upstairs, and the Captain is asleep.” Then, opening the note (as well as the fox-terriers would permit), she glanced over it, and the messenger glanced at her—a woman of thirty-five, with a thin, well-bred face, black hair, and very long lashes. When she lifted them, he saw that her eyes were of a blue-black shade, both sad and searching—the whole expression of her face seemed to be concentrated in their pupils.
“Please tell Miss Parrett I’ll come to tea. I’ve no time to write. I have to take the dogs out.” The fox-terriers were straining hard at their leash. “They must have exercise; and when these come back, there are three more.”
As she spoke, Wynyard could hear the injured yelping of their disappointed companions.
“Now, don’t open the little dogs’ room,” she called to an elderly woman in the background, who gave the amazing answer—
“And what would ail me?”
“And mind that the Captain has his broth at twelve.” Then she stepped out into the beating rain, and Wynyard was surprised to find that Mrs. Ramsay was about to accompany him.
“I’m going your way,” she explained; “it’s the safest. These two are new dogs, and I’m rather afraid to go near the Rectory; their Aberdeen is such a quarrelsome beast—always trailing his coat.”
“Mackenzie?”
“Ah, and so you know him?” she said, with a smile; “you weren’t long in making his acquaintance.”