Joe thought they must all hear the breath that rattled in his throat. A man, smoking a pipe, had hidden—. Did his uncle suspect somebody here? His hot eyes watched to see who would bring forth tobacco.
“All the pipefuls you want, Doctor,” Alec Landry roared, “and welcome. Bruce and I smoke the same brand. Take your pick of either pouch.”
The doctor filled his pipe, and a merry group came through the hall and Alec was swept away.
“Skipper’s certainly putting on a show for the golden crown,” Bruce said tartly.
The blind face was a tranquil mask. “Aren’t you?”
Bruce gave a bitter laugh. “You’ve seen the Herald, I suppose, and you’re wondering about the mare. You’ve never been a half-soled cousin, have you? When you become the poor end of a rich relative you play to keep in his good graces. You heard Skipper mention the will? When Allan dies I’ll inherit wealth. Something to look forward to, isn’t it? And yet, at this minute, I’m as poor—.” He bit off the sentence, and in that instant the noisy gayety from the lawn fell away to a startled murmur and then became a hushed silence.
“Probably some more of Skipper’s symbolism,” Bruce Robb jeered.
Dr. Stone said, “Lady, out,” and they reached the porch. The silence remained unbroken.
“It’s a gypsy woman, Uncle David,” Joe said breathlessly.
The woman was painfully old, and gnarled, and advanced toward the porch with the aid of a stout stick of twisted wood. Even in the voluminous folds of her faded, bedraggled, once gayly-colored garments she seemed a fragile framework of bones and of brown, wrinkled flesh. Beads were strung around her scrawny neck; brass rings hung from her ears. And as Joe watched, fascinated, she hobbled slowly up the walk with the slowness of great age.