Part 35 (2/2)

”My name is Ellen Dix,” she said.

”Dix--Dix?” repeated the man. ”Why, I know that name, certainly, of course! You must be the daughter of Cephas Dix. Odd name, Cephas, eh?”

Ellen nodded, her eyes still busy with the details of the stranger's appearance. She was sure she had never seen him before, yet he knew her father's name.

”My father has been dead a long time,” she said; ”ever since I was a little girl.”

The man appeared singularly disquieted by this intelligence. ”I hadn't heard that,” he said. ”Dead--a long time? Well!”

He scowled, flouris.h.i.+ng his stick as if to pa.s.s on; then settled to his former posture, his pale hands folded on its handsome gold top.

”Cephas Dix wasn't an old man,” he muttered, as if talking to himself. ”Not old. He should be hale and hearty, living in this good country air. Wonderful air this, my dear.”

And he drew a deep breath, his wandering gaze returning swiftly to the girl's face.

”I was just walking out,” he said, nodding briskly. ”Great treat to be able to walk out. I shall walk out whenever I like. Don't care for automobiles--get you over the road too fast. No, no; I won't go out in the automobile, unless I feel like it! No, I won't; and there's an end of it!”

He brought his stick down heavily in the dust, as if emphasizing this statement.

”Guess your father left you pretty well off, eh, my dear?” he went on presently. ”Glad to see you looking so fresh and neat. Always like to see a pretty girl well dressed.”

The man's eyes, extraordinarily bright and keen, roved nimbly over her face and figure.

”No, he did not,” replied Ellen. ”My father used to be rich,” she went on. ”I've heard mother tell about it hundreds of times. We had horses and a carriage and plenty of money; but when the bank went to pieces my father lost everything. Then he died.”

The man was peering at her from under his s.h.a.ggy gray brows.

”But not because the bank failed? Surely not because he lost his money? That sort of thing doesn't kill a man, my dear. No, no!”

”It did,” declared Ellen firmly.

The man at once seemed to grow smaller; to huddle together in his clothes. He muttered something unintelligible, then turned squarely about, so that Ellen could see only his hunched back and the glistening white hair cut close behind his waxen ears.

The girl walked thoughtfully on, but when she paused to look back she saw that he had resumed his slow walk in the opposite direction, his stick describing odd flourishes in the air, as before.

When she reached Bolton House she was ushered into a beautiful parlor by a prim maid in a frilled cap and ap.r.o.n. The maid presented to her attention a small silver tray, and Ellen, blus.h.i.+ng uncomfortably because she had no card, asked for Miss Orr.

Soon the frilled maid reappeared. ”I'm sorry, Miss,” she said, ”I thought Miss Lydia was at home, but I can't find her anywheres about.”

She eyed Ellen's trim figure doubtfully. ”If there was any message--”

”No,” said Ellen. ”I only came to call.”

”I'm real sorry, Miss,” repeated the maid. ”Miss Lydia'll be sorry, too. Who shall I say, please?”

”Miss Dix,” replied Ellen. She walked past the maid, who held the door wide for her exit. Then she paused. A surprising sight met her eyes. Lydia Orr, hatless, flushed as if by rapid flight, was just reaching the steps, convoying the strange old man Ellen had met on the road a short time before.

The maid at her back gave a little cry. Ellen stood staring. So this was the person Jim Dodge had gone to fetch from somewhere!

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