“I spend my life, sir,” she said, “listening and waiting. One never knows when the end may come.”
“But the boat-house,” Hamel objected. “No one has been in there his morning, have they?”
“Who can tell?” she answered. “He could go anywhere when he chose, or how he chose—through the keyhole, if he wanted.”
“But why listen?” Hamel persisted. “There is nothing in there now but some odds and ends of machinery.”
She turned from the fire and looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were colourless, her tone unemotional.
“Maybe! There’s no harm in listening.”
“Did you hear anything which made you want to listen?”
“Who can tell?” she answered. “A woman who lives well-nigh alone, as I live, in a quiet place, hears things so often that other folk never listen to. There’s always something in my ears, night or day. Sometimes I am not sure whether it’s in this world or the other. It was like that with me just then. It was for that reason I listened. Your luncheon’s ready, sir.”
Hamel walked thoughtfully back into his sitting-room. He seated himself before a spotless cloth and watched Hannah Cox spread out his well-cooked, cleanly-served meal.
“If there’s anything you want, sir,” she said, “I shall hear you at a word. The kitchen door is open.”