Mr. Leeson uttered a scream.
“You have outdone yourself, my good woman,” he said. “Do you think I am going to give fowls that will make such delicious and nourishing food away for that trivial sum? My little daughter is a very clever cook, and I shall instruct her with regard to the serving up of the remainder of my poultry. If you will not give me the recipe I must ask you to go.”
The gipsy pretended to be extremely angry.
“I won’t go,” she said, “unless you allow me to tell you your fortune; I won’t stir, and that’s flat.”
“I do not believe in gipsy fortune-tellers. I shall have to call the police if you do not leave my establishment immediately.”
“And how will you manage when you don’t ever leave your own grounds? I am thinking it may be you are a bit afraid. People who stick so close to home often have a reason.”
This remark frightened Mr. Leeson very much. He was always in terror lest some one would guess that he kept his treasure on the premises.
“Look here,” he said, raising his voice. “You see before you the poorest man for my position in the whole of England; it is with the utmost difficulty that I can keep soul and body together. Observe the place; observe the house. Do you think I should care for a recipe to make old fowls tender if I were not in very truth a most poverty-stricken person?”
“I will tell you if you show me your palm,” said the gipsy.
Now, Mr. Leeson was superstitious. It was the last thing he credited himself with, but nevertheless he was. The gipsy, with her dancing black eyes, looked full at him. He had a shadowy, almost a fearful idea that he had seen that face before—he could not make out when. Then it occurred to him that this was the very face that had bent over him for an instant the night before when he was coming back from his fit of unconsciousness. Oh, it was impossible that the gipsy could have been here then! Had he seen her in a sort of vision? He felt startled and alarmed. The gipsy kept watching him; she seemed to be reading him through and through.