“We ain’t goin’ to cheat the girl, but—I dunno.” Whittle stood aside, shaking his head, and Jim passed on. He loitered along the shaggy hedge which bordered the old Bolton estate, and a little farther, then turned back. He had reached the house again when he started. In front of the gate stood a shadowy figure, a woman, by the outlines of the dress. Jim continued hesitatingly. He feared to startle her. But he did not. When he came abreast of her, she turned and looked full in his face, and he recognized Miss Orr. He took off his hat, but was so astonished he could scarcely utter a greeting. The girl was so shy that she stammered a little, but she laughed too, like a child caught in some mischief.
“Oh, I am so glad it is you!” she said.
“Well, taking all things into consideration, so am I,” said Jim.
“You mean—?”
“I mean it is pretty late for you to be out alone, and I’m as good as a Sunday School picnic, with the superintendent and the minister thrown in, for you to meet. I’ll see you home.”
“Goodness! There’s nothing to be afraid of in this little place,” said the girl. “I have lived in New York.”
“Where there are policemen.”
“Oh, yes, but one never counts on that. One never counts on anything in New York. You can’t, you know. Its mathematics are as high as its buildings, too high to take chances. But here—why, I saw pretty near the whole village at that funny fair, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes, but Brookville is not a walled town. People not so desirable as those you saw at the fair have free entrance and egress. It is pretty late.”
“I am not in the least afraid,” said the girl.