“But not because the bank failed? Surely not because he lost his money? That sort of thing doesn’t kill a man, my dear. No, no!”
“It did,” declared Ellen firmly.
The man at once seemed to grow smaller; to huddle together in his clothes. He muttered something unintelligible, then turned squarely about, so that Ellen could see only his hunched back and the glistening white hair cut close behind his waxen ears.
The girl walked thoughtfully on, but when she paused to look back she saw that he had resumed his slow walk in the opposite direction, his stick describing odd flourishes in the air, as before.
When she reached Bolton House she was ushered into a beautiful parlor by a prim maid in a frilled cap and apron. The maid presented to her attention a small silver tray, and Ellen, blushing uncomfortably because she had no card, asked for Miss Orr.
Soon the frilled maid reappeared. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she said, “I thought Miss Lydia was at home, but I can’t find her anywheres about.”
She eyed Ellen’s trim figure doubtfully. “If there was any message—”
“No,” said Ellen. “I only came to call.”
“I’m real sorry, Miss,” repeated the maid. “Miss Lydia’ll be sorry, too. Who shall I say, please?”
“Miss Dix,” replied Ellen. She walked past the maid, who held the door wide for her exit. Then she paused. A surprising sight met her eyes. Lydia Orr, hatless, flushed as if by rapid flight, was just reaching the steps, convoying the strange old man Ellen had met on the road a short time before.