“Mr. Chase,” said Mary-'Gusta, “who was Edgar S. Farmer?”
If that kitchen chair had been the never-to-be-forgotten piece of furniture with the music box beneath it and that box had started to play, Isaiah could not have risen more promptly. He literally jumped to his feet and the paper flew from his hands. He whirled upon the questioner.
“What?” he demanded. “What's that you said?”
He was pale, actually pale. Mary-'Gusta was frightened.
“Why—why, I just asked—” she faltered, “I just asked who—who—What CAN be the matter, Mr. Chase?”
Isaiah waved his hand. “WHAT did you ask?” he demanded.
“I asked—I asked who Edgar S. Farmer was, that's all. I didn't mean—I didn't know—”
“Be still! Be still, for mercy sakes! What do you know about Ed Farmer? Who told you about him?”
The girl was more frightened than ever. Isaiah's next move did not tend to reassure her. He strode to the door, looked up the lane, and closed and locked the door before she could find words to answer.
“Now, then,” he said, coming close to her and looking her straight in the face, “who told you about Ed Farmer?”