As they came within sight of the house, a figure was walking rapidly across the lawn. “Is that Mr. Singleton?” inquired Miss Leontine. “Dear Nannie wrote that they would come over to-day.”
“No, that’s not Singleton; Singleton’s lame,” said the judge.
“And yet it looks so much like him,” murmured Miss Leontine, with conviction, still peering, with the insistence of a near-sighted person.
“It’s a man named Watson,” said the judge, decidedly.
Watson was a generic title, it did for any one whom the judge could not quite see. He considered that a name stopped unnecessary chatter,—made an end of it; if you once knew that it was Watson or Dunlap, you let it alone.
In reality the figure was that of Paul Tennant. After reading Eve’s note he crushed the sheet in his hand, and turned towards the house with rapid stride. There was no one in the hall; he rang the parlor bell.
“Do you know where Miss Bruce is?” he asked, when Powlyne appeared.
“In her room, marse, I spex.”
“Go and see. Don’t knock; listen.” He paced to and fro until Powlyne came back.
“Ain’t dere, marse. Nor yet, periently, she ain’t in de house anywhuz; spex she’s gone fer a walk.”