"Now," said Vogel.
My answer was cut short by a sound from behind—the clinking of a bucket—and Joubert and a stout servant-maid appeared from the path leading to the lake. They were coming to gather water-plants for some household decoration.
Joubert was gallantly carrying the bucket.
Vogel sprang to his feet.
"I must go," said he. "It was my joke. I am the old woman who makes the whistles."
Off he went.
I have often thought since that much weariness, much sorrow to me, and much plotting and planning to the Great Writer of love-stories. Who lives above, might have been saved if I had gone that day with Vogel to see "the old woman who makes the whistles."
"What was Skull-face saying to you?" asked Joubert.
"He made me this," said I, showing him the pithed stick.