But he did not go beyond that; nor did he make any movement to comply. And she was beginning to think him wholly imbecile when his eyes left hers and fixed themselves on the front of her riding-coat. Then, after a moment’s silence, during which she patted the floor with her foot in fierce impatience, he raised his claw-like hand and stretched it slowly towards her throat.
She stepped back, but as much in anger as in fear. Was the man imbecile, or very wicked?
“What do you want?” she asked sharply. “Don’t you understand what I have said to you?”
For the moment he seemed to be disconcerted by her movement. He stood in the same place, slowly blinking his weak eyes at her. Then he turned and moved in a slip-shod fashion to the hearth and threw on two or three morsels of touch-wood, causing the fire to leap up and shoot a flickering light into the darker corners of the room. The gleam discovered his dingy bed and dingier curtains, and the shadowy entrance to the staircase in which Henrietta had once seen Walterson. And it showed Henrietta herself, and awakened a spark in her angry eyes.
The old man, still stooping, looked round at her, his chin on his shoulder. And slowly, with an odd crab-like movement, he edged his way back to her. She watched his approach with a growing fear of the gloomy house and the silence and the dark staircase. She began to think he was imbecile, or worse, and that nothing could be got from him. And she was in two minds about retreating—so powerfully do silence and mystery tell on the nerves—when he paused in his advance, and, raising his lean, twitching hand, pointed to her neck.
“Give it me,” he whimpered. “Give it me—and I’ll see, maybe, where he is.”
She frowned.
“What?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“The gold!” he croaked. “The gold! At your neck, lass! That sparkles! Give it me!” opening and shutting his lean fingers. “And I’ll—I’ll see what I can do.”
She carried her fingers to the neck of her gown and touched the tiny gold medal struck to celebrate the birth of the Princess Charlotte, which she wore as a clasp at her throat. And relieved to find that he meant no worse, she smiled. The scarecrow before her was less of an “innocent” than she had judged him. It was so much the better for her purpose.