It struck Winifred as curious that, while Agatha had written to Hawtrey on her behalf, it was Wyllard who had secured her the opportunity for which she had longed.
“There’s another matter,” she said hesitatingly, when she was left with Wyllard, “I’ll have to live here?”
Wyllard smiled. “I’ve seen to that, though if you don’t like my arrangements you can alter them afterwards. Mrs. Sandberg will take you in. She’s a Scotch Calvinist, and even if she isn’t particularly amiable you’ll be in safe hands. We’ll consider it as fixed, but you’re to stay with Mrs. Hastings for a fortnight. Sproatly”—he signed to the man in the skin coat—“will you get Miss Rawlinson’s baggage into your wagon?”
The man took off his fur cap. “If Miss Rawlinson would like to see Mrs. Sandberg, I’ll drive her round,” he suggested. “We’ll catch you in a league or so. Gregory has a bit of patching to do on his off-side trace.”
“He might have had things straight for once,” grumbled Wyllard half-aloud.
Winifred permitted Sproatly to help her into his wagon—a high, narrow-bodied vehicle, mounted on tall, spidery wheels—but she had to hold fast to the seat while they jolted across the track and through a sea of mire into the unpaved street of the little town. She liked Sproatly’s voice and manner, though she was far from prepossessed by his appearance. Two or three minutes later he stopped before a little wooden house, where they were received by a tall, hard-faced woman, who frowned at the man.
“Ye’ll tak’ your patent medicines somewhere else. I’m wanting none,” she said.
Sproatly grinned. “You needn’t be afraid of them. They couldn’t hurt you. I was talking to a Winnipeg doctor who’d a notion of coming out a day or two ago. I told him if he did he’d have to bring an ax along.”
Then he explained that Wyllard had sent Miss Rawlinson there, and the woman favored her with a glance of careful scrutiny.
“Weel,” she said, “ye look quiet, anyway.” She added, as if further satisfied, “I’ll make ye a cup of tea if ye can wait.”