Captain Daniels marched to the dining-room door, his gold-headed cane marking time like a drumbeat. He nodded curtly to Keziah, who answered the knock, and stepped across the threshold.
“Hum—ha!” he barked. “Is the minister—hum—ha! is Mr. Ellery in?”
“Yes, he's in.”
“Tell him I want to see him.”
The housekeeper announced the visitor.
“He's as sour as a skimmin' of last week's milk,” she whispered. “Don't be afraid of him, though.”
“Oh, I'm not. Show him in.”
“All right. Say, Mr. Ellery, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't say anything about your seein' Grace home. That's none of HIS business, either, or anybody else's.”
The head of the parish committee stalked into the study and the door closed behind him. A rumble of voices in animated conversation succeeded.
Mrs. Coffin went out into the kitchen and resumed her business of making a dried-apple pie. There was a hot fire in the stove and she opened the back door to let in the fresh air. She worked briskly, rolling out the dough, filling the deep dish, and pinking the edges of the upper crust with a fork. She was thinking as she worked, but not of the minister or his visitor.