“That will be the little place, ma’am; shall I be needed to come with you?”
“No, thank you, Pratt; stay with the car. If I want you I will use this whistle of mine,” and Mrs. Fleming touched a small silver dog-whistle that she wore. “Don’t move from here, and if the rector should come this way tell him I have gone in. I can’t say how long I may be.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Pratt, who knew enough of the affair to realize that there was a possibility of excitement ahead, watched his mistress eagerly as through the dusky twilight she made her way to the little house. He could discern her figure still as she stood outside and knocked; then he saw the door burst suddenly open; there were exclamations, and she disappeared within!
It was Margot herself who had responded to her mother’s knock; Margot, with a face of frightened excitement, who burst out crying as she flung herself into Mrs. Fleming’s arms.
“Oh, mother! I did so hope you’d come!”
This from the self-reliant Margot! Mrs. Fleming could hardly believe her ears. “My darling,” she exclaimed; “there’s nothing to be afraid of now. Where’s Sybil? I’ve come to take you home.”
For answer, Margot, her eyes still full of tears, turned half indignantly to her mother. “I’m not frightened,” she said; “and Sybil’s not here; I expect she’s all right. Only, mother—that poor old man!”
“Well?” asked her mother, much more concerned for the moment, it must be admitted, at the excited state in which she had found the usually self-contained little daughter than at the possibility of some disaster to Stella’s “miser”; “where is he, Margot?”
“He’s in there,” Margot managed to ejaculate, as she pointed to a door leading towards what was evidently an adjoining room. “And they’ve sent me out because he’s so ill; and I can’t do anything, they say; but I know I could!”
“But who’s ‘they’?” asked her bewildered parent.