“If he’s here,” he said, “he can’t get out. I’ve got three of the best agents of the Department in there—sent them up when I started to Bartoldi’s to meet you.”
“But how would they know him?” I asked.
“They would know him by a scar in his hand,” replied Walker.
“They ought to know him by a girl on his arm,” I said.
Walker’s voice became reflective.
“I wonder if she could be his granddaughter, after all!”
I laughed. That laugh was like the key to a memory. I at once remembered where I had seen this man and the girl.
It was at the end of the path that follows the sea south at Bar Harbor. There is a great house where the path ends. It was closed; the shutters were up, and the grounds only casually kept; I remembered it now. I had undertaken one afternoon to get through from this sea-path to the village street, and had wandered into an immense sunken garden. I was making no sound.
The grass and leaves had covered the paths; it was very still, and presently I heard the murmur of voices. I wondered who could be here, for as I have said, the place was closed, and I was discovering that there was no way through to the village street. I went forward a few steps, and beyond me, standing in an angle of the garden, obscured by an immense flowering vine, were this old man and this girl.
I remembered the scene perfectly, now that I had the key to it.