“That’s the one,” he said; “the left. I mind, now, that we talked about it. You go right out to her, limpin’, the same as you done before, an’ she’ll not say a word about it. You’ll see.”
Taylor grunted disbelievingly, and hobbled to the front door. He looked back at Bud, who was snickering, made a malicious grimace at him, and softly opened the door.
Miss Harlan had been asleep, but she was not asleep when Taylor opened the door. Indeed, she was never more wide awake in her life. At the sound of the door opening she turned her head and sat stiffly erect, to face Taylor.
Taylor looked apologetically at his ankle, his cheeks tinged with a flush of embarrassment.
“This ankle, ma’am—it ain’t quite well yet. You’ll excuse me not being gone. But Bud—that’s my friend—says it won’t be quite right for a few days yet. But I won’t be in your way—and I hope you enjoy yourself.”
Miss Harlan was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself despite the shadow of the tragedy that had almost descended upon her. And mirth, routing the bitter, resentful emotions that had dwelt in her heart during the night, twitched mightily at her lips and threatened to curve them into a smile.
For during her last visit to the Arrow she had noted particularly that it had been Taylor’s right ankle which had been bandaged, and now he appeared before her with the left swathed in white cloth!
But even had she not known, Taylor’s face must have told her of the deception. For there was guilt in his eyes, and doubt, and a sort of breathless speculation, and—she was certain—an intense curiosity to discover whether or not she was aware of the trick.
But she looked straight at him, betraying nothing of the emotions that had seized her.
“Does it pain you very much?” she inquired.