When they returned to the gun shop, the Indian, knowing the smith well enough by then, inquired who the lady was whom they had seen in the entry.
“Oh, I don’t quite know what she is,” he replied. “She stays upstairs, under the roof; you know that the upper floors of this building are let for lodgers.”
Instantly a life’s story, tragic or unusual, grouped itself about his image of the girl, and his heart was filled with yearning. He was hoping against hope that she would come down again. He had no excuse to go up, but several times while the smith was chatting with the veteran of the Royal Americans, he managed to wander across the hall, looking up the well towards the grimy skylight, and then took another perfunctory glance at the huge antlers standing against the wall. He prolonged his stay as long as he could, saying that he liked to watch gunmakers at work, and having ordered and paid for a costly rifle, he felt that his presence was justified.
It was well into the gloaming when “knock, knock, knock” on the front door resounded through the hollow old building. Abram Antoine’s blood ran cold; he could have shot the visitor if he was the slender girl’s recalcitrant lover, but fervently hoped that, whoever it was, would have the effect of bringing her downstairs.
True enough, before he could get to the door at the smith’s heel, he heard the light, familiar footsteps, and the girl, trying to look unconcerned, was the first to turn the lock.
It was only Simon Harper, a big, lean hunter from Linglestown, over by the Blue Mountain, who had come to take delivery of a rifle made to order.
“Oh, I am so disappointed,” said the girl, as she turned to run upstairs.
The smith was escorting his swarthy customer into the shop. Abram Antoine’s opportunity had come, if ever.
“Do you have the letting of the rooms upstairs?” he said, politely, hat in hand.
The girl looked at him; it was probably the first time during the afternoon that she had noticed his presence, so pre-occupied she had been.