“I can wait no longer. You are the hermit of hermits. Who is your commissariat-general?”
“Who but the child your little friend.”
“My”—
“Miss Grant.”
“Patty!”
He had arisen, and come across to me.
“She lays it in a hollow tree, twice a week, and twice a week I go down by night and fetch it.”
I stood gaping, staring at him.
“Gogo! Where are we?”
“In ‘Rupert’s Folly.’”