“A word in your pointed ear, my friend,” he said, and tightened his grip. “Now where shall we chat? The garden?” He pulled his trembling captive, whose face was a dirty gray with fear, out through the verandah, and on to the terrace.
“Suppose,” Anthony said, dropping his hand, “suppose you tell me why in hell you listen to my conversations with other people.”
“I wasn’t listening.” The man’s voice was sullen, yet at the same time shrill with fear.
“Why take the trouble?” Anthony asked plaintively. “Besides, it’s wicked to tell stories, Belford. Wicked! Unhappy is the burden of a fib. We will, I think, get farther from our fellows and you shall tell me all about everything. I’ve been watching you, you know.”
With these last words, true but intentionally misleading, a black shadow of hopelessness seemed to fall upon the prisoner.
“All right,” he mumbled wearily, and followed meekly, but with dragging feet, while his captor led the way down the steps and across the lawn and into the little copse which faced the eastern end of the house.
As he walked, Anthony thought hard. He was something more than mystified. What in heaven, earth or hell was this little person going to tell him? Another old boot turning into a salmon, what? Father Gethryn, confessor! Well, every little helps.
When the house was hidden from them by the trees, he stopped. He sat on a log and waved Belford to another. Then he lit his pipe and waited. To his surprise, the little servant, after clearing his throat, began at once. Much of his nervousness seemed to drop from him, though he still looked like a man in fear.
“I’m rather glad this has happened, sir,” he said, “because I was going to come to you anyway.”
“You were, were you?” thought Anthony. “Now why?” But he went on smoking.