Then passing out through the hall, she shut the front door behind her.
There were two other front doors to the house, though only the central one was in constant use, being left open in the summer weather, excepting on occasions such as the present, when William Sebastian's wife thought it should be locked. One of the other front doors opened into the sitting-room, but was barred with a tall bureau. The third let into a square room devoted to the lumber accumulations of the house. A bar and shelves for decanters remained there, but these William Sebastian had never permitted to be used since his name was painted on the sign.
Mrs. Sebastian felt a desire to confuse the outgoing woman by the three doors and imprison her in the old store room.
“I don't think the child's hers,” exclaimed Mrs. Sebastian.
“Thee isn't Solomon,” observed the Quaker, twinkling at his wife. “Thee cannot judge who the true mother may be.”
“She shouldn't got in here if I'd had the keeping of the door,” continued Mrs. Sebastian. “I may not be Solomon, but I think I could keep the varmints out of my own chicken house.”
Grandma Padgett set her glasses in a perplexed stare at the door.
“She didn't let us say good-by to Fairy Carrie,” exclaimed aunt Corinne indignantly, “and kept her face hid away all the time so she couldn't look at us. I'd hate to have such a ma!”
“She'll whip the poor little thing for running off with us, when she gets her away,” said Robert Day, listening for doleful sounds.
“Well, what does thee think of this business?” inquired William Sebastian of the lawyer who was busying himself drawing squares on the tablecloth with a steel fork. “It ought to come in thy line. Thee deals with criminals and knows the deceitfulness of our human hearts. What does thee say to the woman?”