“Is he there now?”
“No! He’s gone.”
“What sort of a man?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he look like?”
“I can’t tell you.”
But at that instant the man in the bowler hat turned suddenly, and the arch, triumphant look flew to his face.
“Why, he must be there!” he cried, pointing up the grove. “Don’t you hear him laughing? He must be behind those trees.”
And his voice, with curious delight, broke into a laugh again, as he stood and stamped his feet on the snow, and danced to his own laughter, ducking his head. Then he turned away and ran swiftly up the avenue lined with old trees.
He slowed down as a door at the end of a garden path, white with untouched snow, suddenly opened, and a woman in a long-fringed black shawl stood in the light. She peered out into the night. Then she came down to the low garden gate. Crumbs of snow still fell. She had dark hair and a tall, dark comb.