“He says to me, ‘Is Miss Harding at home?’ I says, ‘Yes, sir, she’s at home, but she’s out at the moment nursing a little boy upstairs’. He says to me, ‘Is Miss Evelyn Wastneys at home?’ I says, ‘She don’t live here, sir. There has some letters come—’ He says, ‘When will Miss Harding be in?’ I says, ‘She generally gives us a look, as it might be, about six, before the young ladies settles to bed’. ‘Then I’ll wait!’ he says, takes off his hat, and walked in. I said, ‘What name shall I say, please?’ He said, ‘It doesn’t matter about my name. She doesn’t know it.’”
I stood silent, digesting the news.
“What sort of a gentleman is he? What does he look like?”
The orphan considered, silently chewing the cud.
“He looks,” she opined deliberately, “as if he could give you what for!”
At that, without one second’s pause, I scuttled into my own room and locked the door behind me. (I would have “locked and double locked” it, as heroines of fiction do on such occasions, but it has always remained a mystery to me how they manage to do it!) That being done I fell into a chair, and breathlessly confronted—the worst!
It was the Squire! I knew it without a doubt. If the orphan had devoted an hour to her description, she could not have been more apt. In some mysterious way he had tracked me to my lair. I might have known he would do it! He was not the sort of man to be daunted by a closed door. He would put out the whole of his big, indomitable force, till by hook or by crook it flew open, and the secret was revealed. Mercifully, however, it was so far only Miss Harding whom he had discovered; Evelyn Wastneys still eluded his grasp, and if I could summon enough nerve and courage to carry through one final interview, all might yet be well. It was useless to say I would not see him. He would simply wait until I did. The only result would be to arouse his suspicions. I rose slowly and confronted myself in the glass.
The disguise was good, but was it good enough? I hastily opened my “make up” case, and accentuated the lines which the expert had shown were most telling—the curve of the upper lip, the kink in the eyebrow, the long wrinkle from nose to chin. I wrapped my Paisley scarf round my shoulders, took my courage in both hands, and opened the door. I decided to go into the dining-room, draw the casement curtains, seat myself with my back to the light, and—send the orphan to summon him to my presence! I was nervous and scared, but—let me confess it—the moment was not without a fearful joy! My heart was beating with quick, excited throbs. It was the oddest, most inexplicable thing, but I—I really wanted to see him. If a wish could have spirited him away, I could not have brought myself to breathe it. It seemed suddenly as if, unknown to myself, I had missed him, been missing him for a long, long time—
The door opened and he came in.