“That I will, and so will Jessie. I always like your puddens, mother, they make one feel so good while one’s eating them—they’re so innocent.”
“You’ve not seen any more of your brother, I suppose?” said Mrs Shingle just then, inadvertently.
“Well, I have seen him,” said Dick,—“twice. He’s up to some little game.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, that he’s got a man always watching me. He follows me like my shadow. He wants to find out my business, or else he’s going to try on his little dodge again. But I’m not afraid. Jessie, my gal, what is it?”
“Nothing, father—nothing,” she said, trying to smile as she rose from the table. “The room is too hot. I think I’ll go upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you, my darling,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle; but Jessie insisted on her staying, and she had her own way, going up to sit at her window, as was her wont, to watch wistfully along the darkened road for the relief that seemed as if it would never come.
She had been there about an hour, when suddenly she started up, and gazed down excitedly into the garden, where she could plainly make out the figure of a man; and as she looked he raised his hands to her and sharply beckoned her to come down.
“At last!” she cried, with a look of joy flashing from her eyes; and, going to the door, she listened for a few moments, hesitated, and then went below to the breakfast-room, which opened with French casements on to the garden, unfastened one, and in the dim light a figure passed in rapidly and closed the window.
There were two men standing in the shadow of a gate on the other side, one of whom scribbled something quickly on a page of a note-book, and gave it to the other, with the words—