taller than he, lean and loose-built, clad in an almost white (and very unseasonable looking) suit of some homespun material. He wore no covering on his head, a thick crop of curly hair (of a color indistinguishable in the dim light) presumably affording such protection as he needed. His face was turned down towards the old man, who was looking up at him and apparently talking to him, though in so low a tone that no sound reached Mary and Cynthia as they passed by. Neither man gave any sign of noticing their presence.
“Mr. Saffron, you said? Rather a queer name, but he looks a nice old man; patriarchal, you know. What’s the name of the other one?”
“I did hear; somebody mentioned him at the Naylors’—somebody who had heard something about him in France. What was the name? It was something queer too, I think.”
“They’ve got queer names, and they live in a queer house!” Cynthia actually gave a little laugh. “But are you going to walk all night, Mary dear?”
“Oh, poor thing! I forgot you! You’re tired? We’ll turn back.”
They retraced their steps, again passing Tower Cottage, into which its occupants must have gone, for they were no longer to be seen.
“That name’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Mary in amused vexation. “I shall get it in a moment!”
Cynthia had relapsed into gloom. “It doesn’t matter in the least,” she murmured.
“It’s Beaumaroy!” said Mary in triumph.
“I don’t wonder you couldn’t remember that!”
CHAPTER II. — THE GENERAL REMEMBERS
Amongst other various, and no doubt useful, functions, Miss Delia Wall performed that of gossip and news agent-general to the village of Inkston. A hard-featured, swarthy spinster of forty, with a roving, inquisitive, yet not unkindly eye, she perambulated—or rather percycled—the district, taking stock of every incident. Not a cat could kitten or a dog have the mange without her privity; critics of her mental activity went near to insinuating connivance.
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