The smile that passed over Mayne's face was particularly humorous and winning.
"Don't care came to a bad end," he said, "and that's what I particularly hope won't happen to you. Are you going my way?"
"No; I'm staying here, if you're so mighty curious to know my plans," was the answer, given with a discourtesy so studied that to notice it would be to allow the speaker to fancy that he had "scored."
The rudeness must, of course, have been obvious to the priest, but he disregarded it entirely. A smile again flickered over his face, as of one who holds a trump card. "Well, then, good-night!" he said briskly, opening the gate at once, and passing through it with an air of having no time to waste.
Bert cast another look at the silent house. Nobody was in sight but the big Boer woman slouching back to the doorway. He lowered the point of his rapier, so to speak.
"Say—how's he goin' on?" he asked.
Mr. Mayne at once dropped his appearance of hurry, and closed the gate slowly.
"Well," he said, "he's just lingering. It may last two or three weeks yet. God help him!"
Bert beat his clenched fist softly on the top bar of the gate.
"Look here!" he burst out, as if the words were torn from him, "they let you go in and out—you can tell—you oughter know. Is she givin' that girl hell?"