"They'd not do such a thing in their own homes to save their lives," laughed the agent, coming softly out again unseen. "Cattacomb must be in clover among 'em!"
He went home then, looked attentively once more at the alarming paragraph, and burnt the newspaper. After that, he paced his little garden, as if in a fit of restlessness, and then leaned over the gate, lost in reflection. The trees of the Maze were perfectly still in the hot summer air; the road was dusty and not a single passenger to be seen on it.
A few minutes, and footsteps broke upon his ear. They were Miss Blake's, bringing her home from St. Jerome's. She stopped to shake hands.
"Well," said he, with a laugh, "all the scrubbing done?"
"How do you know anything about the scrubbing?" returned Miss Blake.
"I looked in just now, and saw you all at it, dusting and brushing, and thought what an enviable young priest that Cattacomb must be. Now, my lad! don't ride over us if you can help it."
The very same butcher-boy, in the same blue frock, had come galloping up to the Maze gate, rung the bell, and was now prancing backwards across the road on his horse, which was very restive. Something appeared to have startled the animal; and it was to the boy the last remark had been addressed. Miss Blake stepped inside the garden gate, held open for her--for the horse seemed to think the path his own ground as well as the highway.
"He have been shoed this morning, and he's always in this dratted temper after it," spoke the boy gratuitously.
The woman-servant came out with her dish, received some meat, and disappeared again, taking care to lock the gate after her. She had never left it unlocked since the unlucky day when Miss Blake got in. Glancing over the road, she saw the lady and the agent watching her, and no doubt recognized the former.
"Looks like a faithful servant, that," remarked Mr. Smith.