“Isobel,” I said, “I cannot accept the sacrifice. He is your pig.”
“Well,” she said, “we will go to prison together.”
VIII. SALTED ALMONDS
AS we approached our house, Mr. Millington, who was in his garage, and Mr. Rolfs, who was on his porch, came to meet us. They looked at the carriage with suspicion, but I assumed a careless, innocent look, well calculated to deceive them. They came down to the carriage, and laid their hands on it, and glanced into it. Mr. Rolfs, with ill-assumed absent-mindedness, lifted the leather cover of the rear of the carriage box and glanced in. I was glad we had put Chesterfield Whiting under the seat.
“Shall I take in the—” Isobel began, but I cut her words short.
“No, I will take in your wraps,” I said meaningly, and then added: “Well, good night, Millington; good night, Rolfs.”
They did not take the hint. They walked beside the carriage as I drove to the stable, and although Mr. Prawley was able to do the work alone, and I made some excuse to help him, Rolfs and Millington seemed eager to help us.
“I worked two hours over my automobile,” said Millington, “and she is knocking again as usual. To-morrow, I propose you and I and our wives will take a little pig up to Port Lafayette—”