‘I believe it,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘And you don’t know how it relieves me to hear it. And did the publican do all this at his own expense?’
‘He wouldn’t take a penny, Mrs Baker.’
‘He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.’
‘Oh, Ned thanked him for you,’ said Andy, though without meaning more than he said.
‘I wouldn’t have fancied that Ned would have thought of that,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘When I first heard of my poor husband’s death, I thought perhaps he’d been drinking again—that worried me a bit.’
‘He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs Baker,’ said Andy quickly.
Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed surprised or puzzled, once or twice, while Andy was speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him; then she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head and looked at him, with half-shut eyes, in a way I didn’t like. Once or twice she looked at me as if she was going to ask me a question, but I always looked away quick and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or into the empty fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off me. Then she asked Andy a question or two, in all innocence I believe now, but it scared him, and at last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp. Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap.
The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker went to it. We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring all over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself, and went out of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy as she left the room, but he kept his eyes away.
‘Brace up now, Jack,’ whispered Andy to me, ‘the worst is coming.’
When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.