We all looked at each other in
surprise; some of the party remarked upon the carelessness of servants in
letting nasty-looking fellows hang about the kitchen, others told stories
of tramps and burglars. Mrs. Oke did not speak; but I noticed the curious,
distant-looking smile in her thin cheeks.
After a minute William Oke came in, his napkin in his hand. He shut the
window behind him and silently resumed his place.
"Well, who was it?" we all asked.
"Nobody. I--I must have made a mistake," he answered, and turned crimson,
while he busily peeled a pear.
"It was probably Lovelock," remarked Mrs. Oke, just as she might have said,
"It was probably the gardener," but with that faint smile of pleasure still
in her face. Except the theatrical cousin, who burst into a loud laugh,
none of the company had ever heard Lovelock's name, and, doubtless
imagining him to be some natural appanage of the Oke family, groom or
farmer, said nothing, so the subject dropped.
From that evening onwards things began to assume a different aspect. That
incident was the beginning of a perfect system--a system of what? I
scarcely know how to call it.
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