“It’s a lie—an invention!” cried Dick indignantly.
“You’d better ask Miss Jessie if it is,” said Max, laughing. “Ask—ask Jessie?” cried Dick, looking from one to the other. “What do you mean? To—Oh, I won’t have it. Who dares to say anything of the kind?”
“Fact, sir,” said the private inquirer sharply. “Young lady, sitting at window on first-floor, sits there every evening watching along the road.”
“Yes,” said Dick, in a bewildered way; “she does—but—”
“To-night, at seven fifty-six, tall gent in dark coat came up, jumped the railing, crossed the flower-bed, and made signs.”
There was a pause, and Tom sighed.
“Dark gent, with big beard—something like this gent, sir,” said the private inquirer, pointing to Tom.
“Was it you, Tom?” said Dick, with his old puzzled look growing more distinct upon his lined brow.
“No, uncle,” said Tom hoarsely; and then to himself—“Would to God it had been!”
“Oh no, sir, not this gent,” said the private inquirer, referring to his note-book—“something like him, but not him. He signals to the lady at the window. Lady comes down. Lady opens breakfast-room window.”