The bent bundle did not stir.
“Do you hear me?” Alec roared. “Go!”
Slowly a clawlike hand lifted itself above the parchment face. For seconds she stood there, and in those seconds no one moved or spoke.
“The blind man,” she croaked. “Hark to me. The blind man shall see, and the wolf shall find a thorn in the rose.”
The hand dropped. Slowly that bundle of rags turned, slowly it tottered on its way, slowly it disappeared among the trees. A shuddering voice said, “Gosh, Allan; that was creepy.”
Alec Landry fumed. “Mark me, Doctor, if there’s mischief abroad in this neighborhood it will be the gypsies behind it.”
“What mischief, Alec?”
“Why—.” Joe was startled to find the man suddenly uneasy. “How should I know?”
“How?” the doctor admitted blandly. Pinched lines had formed around the sightless eyes. Lady moved restlessly against his left leg, and Allan strove to rout the depression of the old woman’s visit.
“Your fortune, kind masters,” he mimicked; “a roof lies over this house—.” He went off into a gale of laughter. “What a lot of rot! I said I’d show you the mare, Joe. Coming, Doctor?” and the party, recovering its voice and its holiday mood, milled toward the stable-yard.