She looked at him wide-eyed, in great concern.
“Do you mean that you have ever been homeless?”
He laughed. “I think I’ve been everything imaginable, except married.”
“Hush!” she said. “Listen!” Her keen ear had caught a child’s cry. “It’s Jean. I must go.”
She hurried out. Aristide prepared to light another cigarette. But a second before the application of the flaring match an idea struck him. He blew out the match, replaced the cigarette in his case, and with a dexterity that revealed the professional of years ago, began to clear the table. He took the things noiselessly into the kitchen, shut the door, and master of the kitchen and scullery washed up. Then, the most care-free creature in the world, he stole down the stone passage into the wilderness of Beverly Stoke.
An hour afterwards he knocked at the front door, Anne Honeywood admitted him.
“I have arranged with the good Mrs. Buttershaw. She lives a hundred yards down the road. I bring my baggage to-morrow evening.”
Anne regarded him in a humorous, helpless way. “I can’t prevent you,” she said, “but I can give you a piece of advice.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t wash up for Mrs. Buttershaw.”