The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once again Barraclough slipped into the room. His clothes were white with dust, his eyes hollow and deep set, but around the corners of his mouth was just such a smile as any mother might hope to see.
"Bless your sweet bobbed head," he whispered, throwing an arm affectionately about her shoulders. "Though why in blazes you entertain well known crooks to tea gets me wondering."
"Oh, my dear, dear boy, wherever did you come from?" she cried, patting him all over to convince herself of his reality.
"Down the chimney, mother, like Santa Claus."
"But why and without a word?"
"Hadn't a notion I was coming," he replied dropping on to the sofa and spreading out his legs. "I was whacked to the wide and had to stop somewhere and get me breath."
The door was flung open and Flora and Jane burst in.
"I say, that was a near shave," gasped the latter. "Where did you spring from?"
"Somewhere t'other side of Plymouth. Keep your eye on the window,
Flora. Don't want that old blackbird to get a view of me. Thanks!
Fine. See him down the road, Jane?"
"You bet."