Ford looked at Josephine, opened his lips to say that it might still be headed off, and decided not to speak.  There was a stubborn streak in Ford Campbell.  She had said some bitter things, in her anger.  Perhaps she had not entirely believed them herself, and perhaps Mrs. Kate had not been accurately quoted by her precocious young son; she may not have said that she was disappointed in Ford.  They might not have believed whatever it was Dick told them, and they might still have full confidence in him, Ford Campbell.  Still, there was the stubborn streak which would not explain or defend.  So he left the table, and went into his own room without any word save a muttered excuse; and that in spite of the fact that Josephine looked full at him, at last, and with a wistfulness that moved him almost to the point of taking her in his arms and kissing away the worry—­if he could.

He went up to the table where stood the jug, looked at it, lifted it, and set it down again.  Then he lifted it again and pulled the cork out with a jerk, wondering if the sound of it had reached through the thin partition to the ears of Josephine; he was guilty of hoping so.  He put back the cork—­this time carefully—­walked to the outer door, turned the key, opened the door, and closed it again with a slam.  Then, with a grim set of the lips, he walked softly into the closet and pulled the door nearly shut.

He knew there was a chance that Josephine, if she were interested in his movements, would go immediately into the sitting-room, where she could see the path, and would know that he had not really left the house.  But she did not, evidently.  She sat long enough in the dining-room for Ford to call himself a name or two and to feel exceedingly foolish over the trick, and to decide that it was a very childish one for a grown man to play upon a woman.  Then she pushed back her chair, came straight toward his room, opened the door, and looked in; Ford knew, for he saw her through the crack he had left in the closet doorway.  She stood there looking at the jug on the table, then went up and lifted it, much as Ford had done, and pulled the cork with a certain angry defiance.  Perhaps, he guessed shrewdly, Josephine also felt rather foolish at what she was doing—­and he smiled over the thought.

Josephine turned the jug to the light, shut one eye into an adorable squint, and peered in.  Then she set the jug down and pushed the cork slowly into place; and her face was puzzled.  Ford could have laughed aloud when he saw it, but instead he held his breath for fear she should discover him.  She stood very still for a minute or two, staring at nothing at all; moved the jug into the exact place where it had stood before, and went out of the room on her toes.

So did Ford, for that matter, and he was in a cold terror lest she should look out and see him walking down the path where he should logically have walked more than five minutes before.  He did not dare to turn and look—­until he was outside the gate; then inspiration came to aid him and he went back boldly, stepped upon the porch with no effort at silence, opened his door, and went in as one who has a right there.