And suddenly, for no reason at all, he was filled with a creeping, apprehensive dread. His eyes, startled, rested on the house where Matt Farley had once lived, and he forgot to suck nectar through the punctured hole in the apple. Often, since the house had been abandoned, he had romped around the wide porches and climbed over the heavy railings. But now, in the gathering gloom, the structure had ceased to be friendly and inviting. Against the darkening sky this old friend of a house had all at once become a threatening, nameless thing—a monster of lightless windows, and locked doors, and stark, inner silence. The boy, uneasy, began to move toward the road. Without warning he broke into a run as though peril clutched at his heels.
Back on the road he felt safe. Outside the house of Frederick Wingate two men stood talking; he saw, with surprise, that one of them was Mr. Sweetman. A little while ago the farmer had been working at his own barn, and he was not the type given to hurry. Why, then, had he hurried over here? The boy was conscious, as he approached, that the talking stopped. Roscoe Sweetman called in his slow, heavy, rumbling voice:
“Why were you running, Joe?”
The boy gulped. “N—nothing.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” the farmer cried.
But the artist only laughed. “Coincidence, Roscoe.” The laugh lingered in the boy’s ears, amused, scoffing. “Your uncle going to be home tonight, Joe?”
“I think so, Mr. Wingate.”
“Tell him we’ll be over.”
Joe trudged on through the snow. What was this coincidence? Why had Mr. Sweetman cried out, “Didn’t I tell you?” Why were they coming to see Uncle David? Had it something to do with the Farley house? Why had he fled in panic from the orchard? Now that he was away from the place the action seemed foolish and cowardly. It was one thing he would not tell his uncle, for he could not imagine Dr. David Stone, blind though he was, fleeing from anything.
At eight o’clock the artist and the farmer came to the house. Frederick Wingate called: “Don’t get up, Doctor,” and Dr. Stone held out a hand of warm greeting. Lady lay at his feet and stared unwinking at the visitors.