“No,” hesitated Rose, “not with you.”
“Nor with any one.”
“I suppose not,” said Rose, common sense reviving, though her grasp was not relaxed.
“Would it distress you very much to try to point him out to me?” said the Colonel, in his irresistibly sweet tone.
“I will. Only keep hold of my hand, pray,” and the little hand trembled so much that he felt himself committing a cruel action in leading her along the esplanade, but there was no fresh start of recognition, and when they had gone the whole length, she breathed more freely, and said, “No, he was not there.”
Recollecting how young she had been at the time of Maddox’s treason, the Colonel began to doubt if her imagination had not raised a bugbear, and he questioned her, “My dear, why are you so much afraid, of this person? What do you know about him?”
“He told wicked stories of my papa,” said Rose, very low.
“True, but he could not hurt you. You don’t think he goes about like Red Ridinghood’s wolf?”
“No, I am not so silly now.”
“Are you sure you know him? Did you often see him in your papa’s house?”