The man, chewing the end of an unlighted cigar, looked at the house with a frown and then glancing backward said in a low tone:
“Well, suit yourself, Mary. You might regret it if you didn’t.”
The woman, presumably his wife, looked with an undecided expression toward the house, as if she feared it.
“Is your name Bard, please?” she asked, raising her veil, and minutely inspecting Mauney’s face.
“Yes,” he said, glancing again at the others.
“He looks the dead image of her!” the other woman remarked prosaically to the man.
“And are you Mauney?” asked his interlocutor.
His brow was puckered with a dawning idea that soon caused his face to brighten up.
“Are you my Aunt Mary?” he asked, eagerly.
“How did you know?”