The man stopped as if he had been struck a blow in the face.
“Carmichael Station, Kentucky,” he repeated in a half whisper. Drawing a leather wallet from his inside pocket, he took out a folded legal cap document and opened it. “Ahem. Not far to go,” he said in a low voice, running down a list with one finger. “Your name——”
“Brown.”
“Mildred Carmichael Brown, I presume.”
“No, Mary. My sister’s named Mildred.”
The old man refolded the document, put it carefully back in the wallet, which he returned to his pocket. Then he resumed his walk, muttering to himself.
“Strange! Strange!” Molly heard him say. “Here in a snowstorm, in the wilderness, on Christmas day, too, I should happen to meet—I can’t get away from them,” he cried angrily, waving his cane. “Victims, victims! Everywhere. They rise up and confront me when I’m sleeping or waking—like ghosts of the past——”
His mutterings gradually became inarticulate as he wrapped his cape around him and stalked through the snow.
“Hunted—hunted—hounded about——” he began again. Suddenly he stopped, took off his hat and held his face up to heaven as if he were about to address some unseen power.
“I’m tired,” he cried. “I’ve had enough of these wanderings; these eternal haunting visions. Let me have peace!” He shook his cane impotently at the overcast skies.