At that moment there was a sound of carriage-wheels on the road. They stopped just in front of the house. The stranger sprang to his feet. His eyes swept round the room in a swift, panic-stricken quest for concealment. Then, crying: “No! They shall not take me! They shall not take me!” he rushed from the room.
Mr. Gilchrist, still spellbound by the story to which he had been so intently listening, stood for a moment as though paralyzed, staring at the open door. A familiar whistle from outside, a cheery call—“Gilchrist! Gilchrist!”—gave him back his faculties. It was Williamson—thank God!
Mr. Gilchrist ran out into the hall, found the front door still open from the stranger’s abrupt departure, peered out into the dark night intensified by the two staring eyes of Williamson’s gig-lamps.
“Come in, Williamson!” he called. His voice was joyous with relief. As he spoke, he heard swift feet upon the gravel! The words had barely left his mouth when a violent collision knocked him breathless against the doorpost. It was the stranger, back again!
“The white dog! The white dog!” he gasped in terror.
Mr. Gilchrist clutched at him and fought for breath to speak.
“But, my dear sir——” he began, irritably. This was absurd! Of course there was a dog—the harmless old white bull which was Williamson’s invariable companion. He tried to explain, but the stranger, tugging frantically to get free, would listen to nothing. With the strength of a madman he wrenched himself from Gilchrist’s detaining grasp and fled into the house.
Williamson, preceded by his old dog, came up the gravel path.
“All alone?” he asked, cheerily.
Mr. Gilchrist hesitated, and then, obeying an obscure impulse, lied.