"Instinct, little old lady. From the day one man has had to protect himself and his woman, bloodily. We are still doing it, on a more terrible scale than ever. Odd, I haven't laid eyes on these in twenty years."
"How often your mother must have watched you there on the floor before the fire, playing at war, and your father facing death at sea. But oh, lover, lover!" She caught him fiercely to her. "In so short a time! I haven't said anything, for I did not want to mar your happiness. But it is hurting so! Dear God, bring him back to me!"
"Honey, I'll come back. There isn't a shell or a U-boat in the world with my name on it. I know it. I hate to have you return to the stage, and yet it will be the best thing. You'll be busy. Idleness never bucks up a person's courage."
"Hark!" She stepped back from him swiftly. "I hear sleigh-bells." She stiffened. Sleigh-bells and yellow envelopes, for she knew that Mathison had left orders at the station to send out telegrams immediately they were received. There was no telephone.
"The village grocer, maybe," suggested Mathison, himself receiving a shock at the sound of the bells.
"No; he always drives out before noon."
Hilda ran to the window to peer out, but it was too dark for her to see anything distinctly.
As for Mathison, he shifted his automatic to the right side-pocket of his jacket. Merely precautionary; for the man he was expecting would not approach the front door with such boldness. Yet the man was infernally clever in some ways. He was likely to do the unexpected. Of course, there was always a chance that Lysgaard might try to put to sea and put over his hour of vengeance until later. There was an odd trait in Mathison's character. He was always suspicious when events ran along too smoothly. His very happiness was almost a warning. He had often thought of having a Secret Service man come up and watch the four trains that passed daily; but, being a man of red blood, he hated the idea. If Lysgaard succeeded in getting through the cordon, he would try to find John Mathison. Backed as he was by a powerful secret organization, and no doubt having John Mathison's dossier in his pocket or in his memory, he would not have much difficulty in locating the dove-cote.
"Why, it's a woman!" cried Hilda.
"A woman? All right. You stay here and I'll go to the door."