“Can you tell me, Miss, if that house yonder belongs to a Mr. Redfern? And if so, how can I get to it?”
Redfern! A vision of bottles seemed to dance before Valancy’s eyes—long bottles of bitters—round bottles of hair tonic—square bottles of liniment—short, corpulent little bottles of purple pills—and all of them bearing that very prosperous, beaming moon-face and steel-rimmed spectacles on the label.
Dr. Redfern!
“No,” said Valancy faintly. “No—that house belongs to Mr. Snaith.”
Dr. Redfern nodded.
“Yes, I understand Bernie’s been calling himself Snaith. Well, it’s his middle name—was his poor mother’s. Bernard Snaith Redfern—that’s him. And now, Miss, you can tell me how to get over to that island? Nobody seems to be home there. I’ve done some waving and yelling. Henry, there, wouldn’t yell. He’s a one-job man. But old Doc Redfern can yell with the best of them yet, and ain’t above doing it. Raised nothing but a couple of crows. Guess Bernie’s out for the day.”
“He was away when I left this morning,” said Valancy. “I suppose he hasn’t come home yet.”
She spoke flatly and tonelessly. This last shock had temporarily bereft her of whatever little power of reasoning had been left her by Dr. Trent’s revelation. In the back of her mind the aforesaid little imp was jeeringly repeating a silly old proverb, “It never rains but it pours.” But she was not trying to think. What was the use?
Dr. Redfern was gazing at her in perplexity.
“When you left this morning? Do you live—over there?”