Morrow’s thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike.
“Young fellow––what young fellow?” Emily Brunell’s voice had changed, slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded Morrow all at once of her father.
“I don’t know who he is––I’m such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way––a short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache.”
“Oh! that man.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “That’s Charley Pennold. He’s no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and again on business. I don’t bother to talk to him. I don’t think Daddy likes him very much, either.”
She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance.
If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in involuntarily disclosing his name?
“He is a map-maker, too?” leaped from Morrow’s lips.
“He is interested in maps––he gives Daddy large orders for them, I believe.”
Emily spoke too hurriedly, and her tones lacked the ring of sincerity which was habitual with them.