“Where did she come from?” Bruce demanded.
“Don’t you know?” Dr. Stone asked mildly.
The morose man flared. “Of course not. Why should I?”
Joe had the feeling that, in that short dialogue, something had been charged, something denied. Strange premonitions grew and throbbed. And yet his eyes were glued to the old crone, leaning like a bundle of rags on her stick at the foot of the porch.
“Your fortunes, kind masters,” she cried in a weak quaver. “It is well to know the future, for a cloud hangs over this house. I see danger where no danger should be, and a bud dying as it blooms.”
Joe went cold to his spine. Feet shifted restlessly in the grass, and Alec Landry burst through the crowd.
“What’s this vagabond doing here?” he demanded roughly.
Bruce gave a thin smile. “A different sort of symbolism, Skipper. Making prophecy. Danger, and death, and doom. Pleasant old hag.”
Joe saw the Landry face go red with rage. Pushing past Bruce he went down the steps, burly in his strength, and towered above the bent, shrunken form.
“You’re not wanted here,” he said. “Clear out before I call the police.”