“A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That’ll be six he has made this year. I’ll show you the last.”
He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.
“Makes ’em better than many women could, and almost in the dark,” said the little man; “but I’ll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister have not been gone long.”
“What!” cried Huish, “from here?”
“Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately.”
“My usual fortune,” muttered Huish excitedly. “But go up,” he said aloud; “I particularly want to have a few words with him.”
“I don’t think it’s of any use, sir; but I’ll see,” repeated the little man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.
It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.
“Well, John Huish,” said the voice, “what do you want?”
It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself to a square opening in the wall.