Rodney Stone. Arthur Conan Doyle

looked at me. Maybe it’s the want of a friend that has driven her to this.”

      It blighted his spirits for days, and when it had all gone from my mind it was brought back to me by his manner. But it was not to be our last memory of the lady with the scarlet pelisse, for before the week was out Jim came round to ask me if I would again go up with him.

      “My uncle has had a letter,” said he. “She would speak with me, and I would be easier if you came with me, Rod.”

      For me it was only a pleasure outing, but I could see, as we drew near the house, that Jim was troubling in his mind lest we should find that things were amiss.

      His fears were soon set at rest, however, for we had scarce clicked the garden gate before the woman was out of the door of the cottage and running down the path to meet us. She was so strange a figure, with some sort of purple wrapper on, and her big, flushed face smiling out of it, that I might, if I had been alone, have taken to my heels at the sight of her. Even Jim stopped for a moment as if he were not very sure of himself, but her hearty ways soon set us at our ease.

      “It is indeed good of you to come and see an old, lonely woman,” said she, “and I owe you an apology that I should give you a fruitless journey on Tuesday, but in a sense you were yourselves the cause of it, since the thought of your coming had excited me, and any excitement throws me into a nervous fever. My poor nerves! You can see for yourselves how they serve me.”

      She held out her twitching hands as she spoke. Then she passed one of them through Jim’s arm, and walked with him up the path.

      “You must let me know you, and know you well,” said she. “Your uncle and aunt are quite old acquaintances of mine, and though you cannot remember me, I have held you in my arms when you were an infant. Tell me, little man,” she added, turning to me, “what do you call your friend?”

      “Boy Jim, ma’am,” said I.

      “Then if you will not think me forward, I will call you Boy Jim also. We elderly people have our privileges, you know. And now you shall come in with me, and we will take a dish of tea together.”

      She led the way into a cosy room—the same which we had caught a glimpse of when last we came—and there, in the middle, was a table with white napery, and shining glass, and gleaming china, and red-cheeked apples piled upon a centre-dish, and a great plateful of smoking muffins which the cross-faced maid had just carried in. You can think that we did justice to all the good things, and Miss Hinton would ever keep pressing us to pass our cup and to fill our plate. Twice during our meal she rose from her chair and withdrew into a cupboard at the end of the room, and each time I saw Jim’s face cloud, for we heard a gentle clink of glass against glass.

      “Come now, little man,” said she to me, when the table had been cleared. “Why are you looking round so much?”

      “Because there are so many pretty things upon the walls.”

      “And which do you think the prettiest of them?”

      “Why, that!” said I, pointing to a picture which hung opposite to me. It was of a tall and slender girl, with the rosiest cheeks and the tenderest eyes—so daintily dressed, too, that I had never seen anything more perfect. She had a posy of flowers in her hand and another one was lying upon the planks of wood upon which she was standing.

      “Oh, that’s the prettiest, is it?” said she, laughing. “Well, now, walk up to it, and let us hear what is writ beneath it.”

      I did as she asked, and read out: “Miss Polly Hinton, as ‘Peggy,’ in The Country Wife, played for her benefit at the Haymarket Theatre, September 14th, 1782.”

      “It’s a play-actress,” said I.