Blynn kept to the safe rôle of talker; but inwardly he chafed and worried. Somewhere down in those leafy depths an unknown foreigner was enticing a young girl to come to him....
He scrutinized both sides of the road as he neared the ruined paper-mill. Tethered among the bushes he knew “Gyp” was peacefully cropping. He listened and watched, but at no time lost his cue in the small talk; and was repaid by a slight movement of the bushes and the sight of a long nose reaching for green branches.
“Sorry” neighed in greeting and stretched his head to look; but “Gyp” withdrew directly to munch his bunch of leaves.
“Has ‘Gyp’ a white star on his nose?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Do you see her?”
“No,” he looked the other way. “I just guessed. Most horses do.”
Below the mill he claimed to have dropped a glove, got out, and ran swiftly back.
Only one dilapidated corner of the ancient paper-mill was still standing, and that had to be reached via a bridge of logs. Canvas was fastened over holes in the roof, and odds and ends of boards made a patch-work flooring, through which the rushing mill race could be clearly seen. The waters below swirled noisily over rocks and fallen masonry.
Save for an old stool, some rag rugs and a mass of copper odds and ends, the mill was quite empty.