“How many of them?” he asked.
“Mr. Davis and his aunt and his friend, the old man, and the young girl––all of them.”
“But the servants–––”
“Ain’t but one––old man Sullivan,” she answered with some scorn.
“And they went where?”
“Lord, now how d’ ye suppose I know that?”
For a second Wilson looked so disconsolate that she offered her last bit of information.
“They took their trunks with ’em.”
“Thanks,” he replied as he turned on his heels and ran for the approaching car.
He made it. During the ride in town his mind was busy with a dozen different conjectures, each wilder than the preceding one. He was hoping against hope that she had written him and that her letter now awaited him in the post-office.