Part 24 (2/2)

”Yet he allowed you to do so?” There was a queer note beneath the courtesy.

Trix's ear, catching the note, found it almost repellant.

”It wasn't his fault,” she declared. ”I came. I said, 'Isn't there someone at the gate?' And while he turned to look, I ran. At least,--” a gleam of laughter sprang to her eyes--”I sneezed first, so it sounded like 'There's somebody at the gate.' So he thought there was really.

It--it was rather mean of me.”

”What you might call an acted lie,” suggested the man.

Trix looked conscience-stricken, contrite.

”I suppose it was,” she admitted in a very small voice. ”But it was the cows. Only I think they were bulls. I _am_ so frightened of cows. I couldn't go back. And he wasn't going to let me through. It wasn't his fault a bit, it wasn't really. I know I told a--a kind of lie.” She sighed heavily.

”You did,” said the man.

Again Trix sighed.

”I'd never make a martyr, would I? Only”--a degree more hopefully--”A sneeze isn't quite like denying real things, things that matter, is it?”

This last was spoken distinctly appealingly.

”I'm not a theologian,” said the man dryly.

Trix looked at him. A sudden light of illumination pa.s.sed over her face, giving place to absolute amazement.

”Aren't you Mr. Danver?” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

”I never heard of his being a theologian,” was the retort.

”But Mr. Danver is dead!” gasped Trix.

”Is he?”

”Well,” said Trix dazed, bewildered, ”he evidently isn't. But why on earth did you--” she broke off.

”Did I what?” he demanded with a queer smile.

”Say you were dead?” asked Trix.

”Dead men, my dear young lady, tell no tales, nor have I ever heard of a living one proclaiming his own demise.”

Trix laughed involuntarily.

”Anyhow you've let other people say you are,” she retorted.

The man shrugged his shoulders.

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