And before she could guess his intention, he had thrust her aside, and strode across to the entrance of the little room beyond, looking in at the bed where the dead woman lay.
But Lotta gave him no time for close observation. She rushed after him and threw her arms about him, pulled him away, and closed the bedroom door.
The man made no resistance. He seemed to think she was anxious to keep him away from infection.
"It won't hurt me," he said. "I've got it already if I'm to have it. The woman in there is my wife. She was taken bad a couple of days ago, and this morning she was delirious and ran off."
It was evident that he was speaking the truth—and the whole of Sigrun's plan was thus of no avail. Lotta felt as if the place were falling about her ears.
"But—who are you, then?" she asked.
"I'm not exactly a stranger here," said the man in a calm, quiet voice. "I'm a knife-grinder, and they know me here at the vicarage. I was here only a week ago, doing the scissors and knives. I go about with my horse and cart and grindstone from place to place, and I've not what you could call a proper house of my own for nursing sick folk. When Ruth was taken bad, I was going to get her down to a hospital, but then she ran away, poor creature. I've been wandering about looking for her all day. I wonder how she managed to get here."
Worse and worse. Lotta felt as if the ground beneath her feet were giving way. But, in her confusion, she yet made one more endeavour to save her friend.
"But it's not your wife lying there," she said. "It's my dear mistress."
"Eh?" said the knife-grinder. "The pretty mistress—is she dead? Did they let her lie out here in an outhouse and die?"