“Sure-ly,” came the laconic assent.
“Is the gentleman in the sitting-room awake yet?”
“Gemmun in settin’ room? I see nought o’ he.”
“Well, the blinds are still down. I thought Judy might have disturbed him, not knowing he was here.”
“She’s t’whoäm. Got roomatics. Tarr’ble hard marnin’ t’is.”
This ancient couple only gave their services during the hours of daylight; no consideration on earth would have availed to keep them within the precincts of Heath Hover during those of darkness. They inhabited one of the labourers’ cottages referred to on the other side of the wooded hill and half a mile distant by road.
“Can’t she come to-day then, Joe?”
“Not to-day,” was the answer, with a very decided shake of the head. “May-be not to-marrer neither.”
Mervyn felt vexed. How could he ask the stranger to prolong his stay when there was nobody on the premises to so much as boil a potato. And he had rather reckoned that the other would prolong his stay. In fact he wanted him to, and that, paradoxically, on all fours with that vague, undefinable instinct of apprehension which had been upon him during those sleepless night hours.
“Look up the pond, Joe,” he said. “See that break in the ice, away there, by the two hanging ash trees. Well, I got him out of there in the middle of the night. I had to lug the ladder along to do it—we’ll have to haul it back again presently, by the way. He’d have been drowned but for it.”