Outside was a large placard: “Fortune Telling by the Woman of Mystery, 2s. 6d. each.” Inside the Woman of Mystery sat trembling with nervousness in front of a table on which reposed her little well-worn pack of cards, each with a neat hieroglyphic in the corner to show whether it meant a death or a wedding or a legacy or anything else.
William, surveying this scene from the gateway became aware of a figure coming slowly down the road. It was a man—a very tall man who stooped slightly as he walked. As he came to William he became suddenly aware in his turn of William’s scowling regard. He lifted his hat.
“Good afternoon,” he said courteously.
“Afternoon,” said William brusquely.
“Do you know,” went on the man, “whether a—Miss Croft lives in the village?”
He pointed down the hill to the cluster of roofs.
“I think,” said William slowly, “I’ve seen your photo—only you wasn’t so old when you had it took.”
“Where have you seen my photo?” said the man.
“In her house—wot I helped her to remove to,” said William proudly.
The man’s kind, rather weak face lit up.