“No, but—some one.”
Her face cleared.
“What’s took you?” she said. “There is no one else here who knows you.”
“The girl.”
She stared at him. “The girl?” she repeated—and the master-note in her voice was no longer fear, but suspicion. “The girl! How came she here? And how,” with sudden ferocity, “came she to see you, my lad?”
“I heard her below and thought that it was you.”
“But how came she here?”
“I don’t know,” he answered sullenly, “unless she was sent.”
“I don’t believe you,” Bess answered coarsely. And the jealousy of her gipsy blood sparkled in her dark eyes. “She was not sent! But maybe she was sent for! Maybe she was sent for!”
“Who was there I could send for her?” he said.