Once having begun to speak, Northrup was too embarrassed to stop. The eyes confronting him were most disconcerting. They smiled; they seemed to be glad he was there; the girl apparently was enjoying the situation.
“The inn is three miles down the south road; the lake is just beyond. Follow that. They serve dinner at the inn at one.”
The voice was like the eyes, friendly, vital, and lovely.
Then, as if staged, a clock set on a high shelf announced in crisp, terse tones the hour of twelve.
“Thank you.”
That was all. The incident was closed and Northrup backed out, drawing the humorous door after him. As the latch caught he heard a thin, reedy voice, probably belonging to the vague girl, say:
“Now that he’s gone, please go on. You got to where–––”
Northrup found himself at the crossroads where, five minutes before, he had stood, and there, in plain sight of any one not marked by Fate for a turning-point, was a sign-board in perfectly good condition, stating the fact that if one followed the direction, indicated by a long, tapering finger, for three miles, he would come to Heathcote Inn, “Open All the Year.”
“The girl must take me for a fool, or worse!” thought Northrup. Then he was conscious of a feeling that he had left something behind him in that room he had just invaded. But no! His gripsack was securely fastened on his back, his walking stick was in his hand, his hat upon his head. Still he felt that lack of something.
“It’s the air!” Northrup sniffed it. “I’m as hungry as a wolf, too. Hungry as I used to be twenty years ago.” Northrup was twenty-seven. “Lord! what a day.”