“Captain Gore, sir?”
The gentleman merely reiterated the order with a straight stare.
“Would you be pleased, sir, to walk into the garden.”
John Gore followed the fellow’s lead, amused at the caution that did not intend to offer him the chance of pocketing anything of value in the house. He was left pacing the gravel walks, with his red coat showing up against the green of the grass.
John Gore had taken two turns up and down the garden when a girl came out between the pillars of the music-room, and stood gazing at the gentleman’s broad back with the impatient air of one who has been cornered by a stranger. She drew back again, as though waiting her opportunity to cross from the portico to the house without being observed. Her chance came and she seized it, only to discover that the garden door of the house was locked.
The man in the red coat turned and came down the path again. He caught sight of the girl standing on the steps, bowed, and lifted his hat to her.
“I am afraid you are locked out,” he said.
“Oh—”
“Your man did not like the look of me, I suppose, and wisely turned the key in the lock. There seems nothing to be pocketed in the garden but a few green peaches.”
They were looking straight into each other’s eyes. Who this sturdy, shabby gentleman could be Barbara could not gather for the moment. Nor was she pleased at being left there—at his mercy.