But she explained that she had met him by the gate—he was a stranger—and she had left him in the same place.
“And you can’t say which way he went?”
“No,” she answered. “Nor yet which way he came. I looked back to see, to tell the truth,” frankly. “But he had not moved, and he did not move until I was out of sight. And I never saw him again. The boy had not been stolen then,” she continued, “and I thought little of it.”
“You should have told,” Bishop answered, eyeing her severely. “Another time, my lass, you’ll get into trouble.” And then suddenly, “Here, can we come in?”
She threw the door wide with a movement that disarmed suspicion.
“To be sure,” she said. “And welcome, so as you don’t make a noise to waken the mistress.”
But when they stood in the kitchen it wore an aspect so neat and orderly that they were ashamed of their suspicions. The fire burned cheerfully on the wide hearth, and a wooden tray set roughly, but cleanly, stood on the corner of the long, polished table. The door of the shady dairy stood open, and afforded a glimpse of the great leaden milk-pans, and the row of shining pails.
“The mistress is just overhead,” she said. “So you’ll not make much noise, if you please.”
“We’ll make none,” said Bishop. “We’ve learned what we want.” And he turned to go out.
All had not entered. Those who had, nodded, turned with gloomy faces, and followed him out. The dog, lurking at the back of its kennel, was still growling.