“Yes,” said Faradeane, grimly. “The man who falls into the river may just as well take a bath; he couldn’t be wetter. So go all my resolutions to the winds!” he added, with a kind of desperation. “But mind, Bertie, our compact remains in full force. I am still the Harold Faradeane whose acquaintance you made the other day for the first time! Remember, you do not know, cannot guess, how much depends on your caution.”
“I know. I’m awfully sorry I made that slip,” said Bertie, penitently. “But it is so hard to talk as if you and I were strangers until the other day.”
“Hard as it is, you will have to do it, Cherub,” responded Faradeane, gravely.
“And I—I cannot help you—you will tell me nothing?” said Bertie, gently.
“You cannot help me; and I can tell you nothing,” replied Faradeane.
As he spoke they reached the gate of The Dell, and saw a woman coming down the path from the cottage. She held something closely wrapped in her thin shawl, from which proceeded the unmistakable wail of a sick child.
Faradeane smiled grimly.
“The first time the gate has been unlocked, and the great disturber of man’s peace finds entrance instantly,” he said.
“Why, it’s the gypsy who told our fortunes yesterday at the picnic, you know,” said Bertie.
The anxious, black eyes flashed from face to face, and she dropped a curtsey.