Suddenly, as if they were alive, the words emerged from the last sweep of the cloth.
"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire."
The meaning broke like sunshine from the clouds. It made Joan laugh.
"Well, of all the funny things," she said aloud, "and from the Bible, too," for "Isaiah" was brought into evidence by another rub. "This house is certainly haunted."
Just then a sharp knock on the panels of the door, set wide to the sweet summer day, startled Joan and brought her to her feet, with that quivering of the nerves that betokened an almost psychic state.
A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes—good ones, well fashioned—were wrinkled and travel stained. They gave the impression of having been slept in. The man was like his garments—the worse for wear but, originally, of good material.
Joan recognized that at once—after she got over the surprise of finding that he was not Clive Cameron.
"Good morning," she said, quietly, while a familiarity about the stranger puzzled her. "Come in and sit down, please."
The man came in, walking stiffly, his eyes fixed upon Joan in a way that confused her. She felt that she ought to remember him, but could not.
"I've tied my horse down by the road," the stranger said, sitting down by the long table, "I got the beast at the station. The distance was longer than I imagined and the roads are—to say the least—not oiled." He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat—still keeping his eyes on Joan.