“Why, that’s all right, Mr. Smith. Ev’rybody in town knows Aunt Jane. Why, Ma says folks say she’d save ter-day for ter-morrer, if she could. But she couldn’t do that, could she? So that’s just silly talk. But you wait till you see Aunt Jane.”
“All right. I’ll wait, Benny.”
“Well, ye won’t have ter wait long, Mr. Smith, ’cause here’s her house. She lives over the groc’ry store, ter save rent, ye know. It’s Uncle Frank’s store. An’ here we are,” he finished, banging open a door and leading the way up a flight of ill-lighted stairs.
CHAPTER III
THE SMALL BOY AT THE KEYHOLE
At the top of the stairs Benny tried to open the door, but as it did not give at his pressure, he knocked lustily, and called “Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane!”
“Isn’t this the bell?” hazarded Mr. Smith, his finger almost on a small push-button near him.
“Yep, but it don’t go now. Uncle Frank wanted it fixed, but Aunt Jane said no; knockin’ was just as good, an’ ’twas lots cheaper, ’cause ’twould save mendin’, and didn’t use any ’lectricity. But Uncle Frank says—”
The door opened abruptly, and Benny interrupted himself to give eager greeting.
“Hullo, Aunt Jane! I’ve brought you somebody. He’s Mr. Smith. An’ you’ll be glad. You see if yer ain’t!”
In the dim hallway Mr. Smith saw a tall, angular woman with graying dark hair and high cheek bones. Her eyes were keen and just now somewhat sternly inquiring, as they were bent upon himself.