II
Privately Mr. Petersen considered it a preposterous errand. He set off at half-past four with the note and made his way through the windy twilight to the wood. At first he couldn’t find the fellow; at last he discovered him sitting on a fallen log a few feet from the path, sunk in apathy.
“Is your name Defoe?” he asked.
The man jumped up.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you a message from her?”
Mr. Petersen handed him the note and the flashlight by which to read it, and with no little curiosity, tried to study his appearance in the little spot of light. But couldn’t; could see no more than a thin, long hand clutching the letter. It seemed a long one.
Presently the flashlight was extinguished and the little wood was very dark, and still. Mr. Petersen respected the feelings of the sensitive brother for a long time, but he couldn’t wait there all night.
“Shall we be getting along?” he said, pleasantly.
Out of the dark came that hoarse and pitiful voice.
“Who are you?” it asked.