“Is that you, Miss?”
“Oh, Sam!” cried the girl in a gasp of relief.
“Can ye no’ get the gate open?” the postman inquired, as though no Symington had been there. He came forward and laid a hand on the bolt.
“What the blazes do you want?” blurted Symington, suddenly erect.
“I’m thinking Miss Carstairs is due home by now,” Sam said coolly. “What do ye say, Miss?”
“Miss Carstairs is in my charge, you interfering fool!”
“No, no, Sam; I’m not!—and I want to get home at once.”
“Kindly stand aside, Mr. Symington,” said the postman.
“Stand aside—for you!” exclaimed Symington in a fury. With an ugly laugh and a curse he drove his fist at the little man’s face, sending him down in a heap. “That’s to go on with,” he said, and strolled off.
“Oh, you coward!” cried Kitty, wrenching open the gate. “Are you badly hurt, Sam?”