“I’ve seen him before,” she told herself tensely. “In Miss Swenster’s garden.”
Watching the retreating figure, she was convinced she had not been mistaken in her first hasty conclusion. The man was none other than the mysterious prowler. His build was the same; he had a similar way of walking: everything tallied.
“And that’s not the only place I’ve seen him,” she thought. “Let me think—”
Before her eyes flashed a mental picture of the photograph she had seen hanging in Miss Swenster’s study. She recalled the youthful face, the regular, almost classical features, a head of curly, golden hair.
“He’s changed some with the years,” she told herself, “but I’ll bet a cookie it’s John Swenster. I wonder if Miss Swenster knows he’s in Claymore?”
Such a possibility seemed remote. Madge knew that Miss Swenster was still so distressed by the memory of her adopted son that his presence in the city was almost certain to disturb her usual calm manner. And during the past few days she had seemed no different than usual.
She wondered what had brought the man to Claymore. It was unlikely he had come to attend the auction sale or to see his mother. His secret trips to the garden suggested a deeper, more selfish purpose.
Madge was inclined to hurry back to the mansion to tell Miss Swenster the startling news. A minute’s thought convinced her that such a course would be unwise.
“There’s just one chance in a hundred that I’m mistaken,” she reasoned. “And if I should tell Miss Swenster her son is here when it’s some other person, she might never get over the shock. No, I must be absolutely sure before I say a word to her.”
She looked after the retreating figure. He was far up the street, walking swiftly, but she thought she could overtake him.