Dr. Wells with little snickers, and glancing sidewise at Mrs. Witherby to see how far he dared provoke her—that he might go just one step further—undertook to enlighten her.
“Te-he—our dear Mrs. Witherby saw a spotted cannibal peering in at the window; te-he-he.”
“’Twas—ah—Oolabaloo, the—ah—Matabele wild man.” The Judge was airily facetious.
“He wore a battle club and a wreath of daisies, the evening being cool,” Wilton Howard supplemented, whereupon every one roared again; except Dr. Frei, whose foreign intellect did not adapt itself readily to Anglo-Saxon humour. He was regarding the infuriated lady with sympathy and credence.
“But if she says she saw something...” he protested in her behalf, only to draw forth another peal of mirth.
He turned to Rosamond solicitously. “There is danger to you?”
“Oh, no! none. Tramps never come to Roseborough. Besides, I—I have a pistol—though I’ve never shot anything but bottles and rabbits, and never expect to!”
Mrs. Witherby was not easily overborne at any time, less than ever when she knew she was not inventing.
“I tell you, I saw distinctly....” She took a few steps toward the verandah, in order to point out the exact spot where the face had appeared. It happened, unfortunately, that every one was looking at her and laughing, instead of following the direction of her pointing finger. Once again, hers were the only eyes to see the swarthy face raised, this time till the tip of its nose was level with the rail. She screamed in long, piercing wails. The face withdrew.
“There!—there!—again!—I saw...!”