June looked at William. William looked at June.
“Is the Workhouse far from here—please can you tell us?” It was William who asked the question.
The Workhouse, it seemed, was not far. In fact it was quite near. To get there you had only to go to the end of the lane, turn to the left, cross the recreation ground and the footbridge over the canal, and keep on bearing to the left and you couldn’t miss it.
“Will it take long?” The question was June’s. And a glance at her wrist accompanied it.
“Not more than five minutes.”
“Thank you very much indeed. We are greatly obliged to you.” William it was who brought the conversation to a climax with a lift of the hat.
LXV
There was only one thing to be done now. Mr. Mitchell’s hour was up, but there was no help for it. The Workhouse, as the girl had said—she might, in June’s opinion have had a claim to good looks if she had not suffered from “a rush of teeth to the head”—was not more than five minutes away if you followed her instructions.
As June had the matter in hand, the instructions were followed to the letter and they arrived at the Workhouse without delay. But as the pile, dark and grim, came into view at the far side of the canal, an odd emotion suddenly brought them up with a round turn.
A long moment they gazed at the bleak and frowning thing before their eyes. And then June said with a laugh, “I’m thinking that’s where you’ll be one day, if you don’t find someone who isn’t a genius to look after you.”