Gaspard turned and led the way to the house. Akerley followed him into the wide living-room. Breakfast was on the table; and between the stove and the table stood Catherine, with a glow of conflicting excitements and emotions in her eyes and on her cheeks.
“This here’s a young feller jist in time for a bite of breakfast,” said Gaspard. “He ain’t a devil, nor he ain’t seen the devil. Don’t know his name nor his business.”
“My name is Anderson,” said Akerley, with an apologetic smile at Catherine.
“Good morning,” she replied, none too steadily.
They sat down at the table, and the old man made a long arm and speared half a dozen pancakes from a central platter with his fork. Catherine poured coffee.
“The young feller here says as how he see Ned Tone a ways back along the road,” said Gaspard, spanking butter on the hot cakes.
The girl started and shot a quick glance of anxious inquiry at her guest. Guessing the reason for her alarm, he smiled reassuringly at her. They had not considered or guarded against that ghost of a chance of his meeting anyone on the road.
“Is Ned Tone coming here?” she asked.
“I think not,” answered Akerley. “Not for a few days, anyway.”
“Why ain’t he comin’ here?” said Gaspard. “Not that he’s wanted—but he’s comin’ all the same! Where else would he be on his way to but here?”