“No; why do you think that?”
“Because he does such funny things. I remember Will’s telling me once about a queer thing that happened in this very grove.”
“What was it?” asked her father, absently.
“Mr. Jordan used to stop at a certain tree, and after looking around to find out if anyone was near he would pass his hand swiftly up and down the bark of the tree, as secretly as if he were committing some crime.”
Mr. Williams turned to gaze upon his daughter’s face with wonder.
“Then,” said Annabel, “he would come back to the path, and resume his walk.”
“Which tree was it?” asked her father, earnestly.
“Why, I think I can find it, for twice Will has pointed it out to me when we were walking here. Let me see. Here is the turn in the path—and here is where Mr. Jordan always stopped * * * and there—no, not that one—the big oak just beside it * * * that’s the very tree, papa! Will once found the tracks of Mr. Jordan’s feet in the snow, where he’d walked up to it. Isn’t it funny?”
Mr. Williams shook his head. There was a puzzled expression upon his face. He stared at the tree for a time as if in a brown study. The incident just related was singular enough to be interesting, but the old oak was just like a dozen other oaks that stood around. Why should Mr. Jordan pay especial attention to that particular tree?
“Where are you going, papa?”