“I shall look into this,” said my master firmly. “We are your oldest friends. Your Grandmother and Carty are coercing you, I believe.”
Stanna didn’t speak. “There he is,” she said softly.
We all looked across the street and there—I was going to say plodding, but that is too heavy a word—walking steadfastly along the pavement, was a man of medium-height, with a sour-looking bull-dog at his heels.
“Gringo, by all that’s wonderful,” I muttered.
“We didn’t know he was going to call this evening,” murmured Stanna. “Grandmother will be distracted. She will have to go to the door.”
“You would better go home,” said my master dryly.
“No hurry,” said the girl mischievously, and she watched the man go up the steps to her house which was another one of those big, old-fashioned, detached ones, which peer out from between sky-scraping apartment houses on the Drive, like Daniels in dens of lions.
Gringo did not follow his master, but went under the steps.
“Poor Grandmother,” said Stanna a few minutes later. “He is in the library. She has run the shade away up—a storm signal. But I’m not going in yet,” and she laughed as merrily as a child.
“Yes, you will, Stanna,” said my master decidedly, “and I’m going with you. Come along.”