‘This morning—as I’ve said already,—’ she glanced at Lessingham as if she defied his contradiction—‘when that Arab party came home it was just on the stroke of seven. I know what was the exact time because, when I went to the door to the milkman, my clock was striking the half hour, and I always keep it thirty minutes fast. As I was taking the milk, the man said to me, “Hollo, Miss Coleman, here’s your friend coming along.” “What friend?” I says,—for I ain’t got no friends, as I know, round here, nor yet, I hope no enemies neither.
‘And I looks round, and there was the Arab party coming tearing down the road, his bedcover thing all flying in the wind, and his arms straight out in front of him,—I never did see anyone go at such a pace. “My goodness,” I says, “I wonder he don’t do himself an injury.” “I wonder someone else don’t do him an injury,” says the milkman. “The very sight of him is enough to make my milk go sour.” And he picked up his pail and went away quite grumpy,—though what that Arab party’s done to him is more than I can say.—I have always noticed that milkman’s temper’s short like his measure. I wasn’t best pleased with him for speaking of that Arab party as my friend, which he never has been, and never won’t be, and never could be neither.
‘Five persons went to the house after the milkman was gone, and that there Arab party was safe inside,—three of them was commercials, that I know, because afterwards they came to me. But of course they none of them got no chance with that there Arab party except of hammering at his front door, which ain’t what you might call a paying game, nor nice for the temper, but for that I don’t blame him, for if once those commercials do begin talking they’ll talk for ever.
‘Now I’m coming to this afternoon.’
I thought it was about time,—though for the life of me, I did not dare to hint as much.
‘Well, it might have been three, or it might have been half past, anyhow it was thereabouts, when up there comes two men and a woman, which one of the men was that young man what’s a friend of yours. “Oh,” I says to myself, “here’s something new in callers, I wonder what it is they’re wanting.” That young man what was a friend of yours, he starts hammering, and hammering, as the custom was with every one who came, and, as usual, no more notice was taken of him than nothing,—though I knew that all the time the Arab party was indoors.’
At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a question.
‘You are sure he was indoors?’
She took it better than I feared she might.
‘Of course I’m sure,—hadn’t I seen him come in at seven, and he never hadn’t gone out since, for I don’t believe that I’d taken my eyes off the place not for two minutes together, and I’d never had a sight of him. If he wasn’t indoors, where was he then?’