[CHAPTER XII]
THE STRANGE WORD
As soon as the noise of the second knock died away sufficiently to permit speech, Elspeth raised her voice crossly, with a glance round to see that nothing telltale was about.
"All right! All right," she said in angry tones, and opening the door. "Who is there? What do you want? Mrs. Kind is ill; don't disturb her."
"It's only me," said Pope Narby, who was standing, long and lean and chilly, on the steps. "I've come for you, Elspeth, as mother wants you, and she says she'll have the hair out of your head if you don't come up sharply. And I want writing-paper for myself. There's none at home, or in the shop, so I thought I'd get it here."
"You might have knocked a little more gently," said Elspeth, relieved to see that Pope had no suspicions. "Poor Mrs. Kind is so ill."
"You startled me rarely, lad," said the sick woman, taking her cue. "And why do you want Elspeth? I can't be left by myself."
"Your husband's at home," explained Pope. "That he isn't," said Mrs. Kind grimly.
"I mean he's at my home, drinking, and talking about the inquest."
"Oh! he is," cried the sick woman, with pretended wrath, "then just you tell him that I'm all alone, and that if he doesn't come back, I'll clip him over the head."