There was no need to specify. The man was obviously going off his tramp—nearing the turn of the dark road. He was ghastly, and constantly gave little spasmodic wrenching coughs during the minute he stood beside her.
“Well,” he gasped, “I dunno. The rot has got into my stummick. I be all touchwood inside like an old ellum.”
“Will you come and see me?”
“ ’Es. By’m-by.”
“Why not now? Where are you going to sleep?”
He grinned, and coughed, half suffocated, as he backed.
“I’ve got my plans, Missis. You—leave me alone.”
It did not sound gracious. One would not have guessed by it his design, which was nothing less than a jolly throw against the devil in the teeth of death. Miss Belmont, a little hurt, but more sad, got into her fly and was driven home. Arrived there, she sat up an hour contemplative. She was just preparing to go to bed in the grey dawn, when she heard the garden-gate click and footsteps rapidly traverse the path to the front door. Her heart seemed to stop. She stole trembling into the hall. “Who’s there?” she demanded in a quavering voice. The answer came, with a clearness which made her start, through the letter-box.
“Me, Missis—Jim Hurley.”
Amazed, and a little embarrassed, she opened. The man burst, almost fell in, and, staggering, recovered himself.