“Since it’s you,” he acceded in the same mock seriousness, “I’ll grant you the right of way. You paid the toll when you let me have a glimpse of you.”
“And this is your house,” she went on musingly. “And I’ve never seen inside its door. It seems strange, somehow, doesn’t it?”
Spurrier laughed. “Now that you’re here,” he suggested, “you might as well hold an inspection. It’s daylight and we can dispense with a chaperon for ten minutes.”
She nodded and laughed too. “I guess the granny-folk would go tongue wagging if they found it out. Anyhow, I’m going to peek in for just a minute.”
She stepped lightly up to the threshold and looked inside, and the slanting shaft from the window fell full on the new photograph of Vivien Martin, so that it stood out in the dim interior emphasized by the flash of its silver frame.
Glory went over and studied the face with a somewhat cryptic expression, but she made no comment and at the door she announced:
“I’ll be goin’ on. You can have three guesses what I’ve got in this basket.”
But Spurrier, catching sight of a bronze tail-quill glinting between the bars of the container, spoke with prompt certainty.
“One guess will be enough. It’s one of those carrier pigeons that Uncle Jimmy Litchfield gave you.”
“You peeped before you guessed,” she accused. “I’m going to leave it with Aunt Erie and let her take it to Carnettsville with her to-morrow and set it free.”