“Some of us ladies was talkin’ it over,” pursued the spinster relentlessly, “an’ I says t’ Mis’ Deacon Whittle: ‘Who counted th’ money ’at was found on Andrew Bolton’s body?’ I says. ‘W’y,’ s’ she, ‘th’ ones ’at found him out in th’ woods where he got lost, I s’pose.’ But come t’ sift it right down t’ facts, not one o’ them ladies c’d tell f’r certain who ’t was ’at found that body. The’ was such an’ excitement ’n’ hullaballoo, nobody ’d thought t’ ask. It wa’n’t Deacon Whittle; n’r it wa’n’t th’ party from th’ Brookville House; ner Hank Simonson, ner any o’ the boys. It was Jim Dodge, an’ she was with him!”
“Well,” said Fanny faintly.
She looked up to meet the minister’s eyes, with a sense of strong relief. Wesley was so wise and good. Wesley would know just what to say to this prying woman.
“What are you and Miss Daggett talking about so earnestly?” asked the minister.
When informed of the question under discussion, he frowned thoughtfully.
“My dear Miss Daggett,” he said, “if you will fetch me the dinner bell from Mrs. Whittle’s kitchen, I shall be happy to answer your question and others like it which have reached me from time to time concerning this unhappy affair.”
“Mis’ Deacon Whittle’s dinner bell?” gasped Lois Daggett. “What’s that got t’ do with—”
“Bring it to me, and you’ll see,” smiled the minister imperturbably.
“What are you going to do, Wesley?” whispered Fanny.
He gazed gravely down into her lovely eyes.