As if she had scented our errand for herself, and wanted to make a third in it, who should meet us in the broad path, but Miss Timmens. Willow Cottage might or might not be haunted, but I am sure her legs were: they couldn’t be still.
“What are you doing up here, Jiff?” she tartly asked.
Jiff told her. Squire Todhetley wanted Roe at Crabb Cot.
“It will be of no use, Jiff; the door’s sure to be fast,” groaned Miss Timmens. “My opinion is that Roe has left the place for good.”
Miss Timmens was mistaken. The shutters were open, and the house showed signs of life. Upon knocking at the door—Miss Timmens took off her patten to do it with, and you might have heard the echoes at North Crabb—it was flung wide by Mrs. James.
Mr. Roe? No, Mr. Roe was not at home. Mrs. Roe was.
Mrs. Roe was! “What, Harriet?” cried excited Miss Timmens.
Yes, Harriet. If we liked to walk in and see her, we could do so.
By the kitchen fire, as being biggest and hottest, in a chair stuffed about with blankets, sat Harriet Roe. Worn, white, shadowy, she was evidently just getting over some desperate illness. I stared; the policeman softly whistled; you might have knocked Miss Timmens down with a feather.