“Go and find out if any one knows which way she went.”
But no one had seen Eve.
“Where is Mrs. Morrison?”
“She’s yere, safe enough. I know whur she is,” answered Powlyne. “Mis’ Morrison she’s down at de barf-house, taken a barf.”
“Is any one with her?”
“Dilsey; she’s dere.”
“Go and ask Dilsey how soon Mrs. Morrison can see me.”
Powlyne started. As she did not come back immediately, he grew impatient, and went himself to the bath-house. It was a queer little place, a small wooden building, near the sound. It seemed an odd idea to bathe there, in a tank filled by a pump, when, twenty feet distant, stretched the lagoon, and on the other side of the island the magnificent sea-beach, smooth as a floor.
Paul knocked. “How soon can Mrs. Morrison see me?”
“She’s troo her barf,” answered Dilsey’s voice at the crack. “Now she’s dess a-lounjun.”