“Aye, aye, skipper. Take care of yourself.”
With a wave of his hand he climbed the low stone wall and disappeared into the shrubbery on the Joyce grounds.
Dorothy turned to Ol’ Man River. “I suppose you know the cook over there, Uncle?”
“Oh, yaas, ma’am. Liza an’ me’s bin frien’s fer ten years.”
“That’s fine. Now listen to what I say, because you’ve got your part to play in this affair and there mustn’t be any slipup.”
For several minutes she talked earnestly to the old negro.
“Is that all clear?” she ended presently.
“Yaas, missy. I’ll do what yo’all tells me to—but I ain’t ’zackly hankerin’ fer you to do all dis.”
Dorothy laughed. “Neither am I, Uncle. But it’s just got to be done, you know.”
They climbed the fence as Bill had done and set off in the direction of the house, which soon came into view through the shrubbery and trees. As they drew nearer, Dorothy saw that Nearma was a large white frame house with green shutters in the conventional New England style. A wide veranda ran along the front of the house and on the far side a massive fieldstone chimney broke the expanse of clapboard between the rows of windows. The drive swung round the front of the building and turned sharply to the rear cutting the wide lawn on the near side. The grounds were beautifully landscaped. On a bright summer’s day it must indeed be a lovely spot. Just then it looked bleak and drear in the steady autumn downpour.