For there was his recent companion also returning to the cross-roads, taking a discreet look in the direction of the village as he came along.  Seeing that the coast was clear, he turned and went rapidly up the road that led over the hill to the old red house.

When Chamberlain saw that the man was well on his way he stepped into the road and solemnly danced three steps of a hornpipe, and the next instant started on a run toward the village.  He got little Simon’s horse and buggy, drove into the upper street and picked up the sheriff, and then trotted at a good rattling pace around by the long road toward Ilion.

CHAPTER XX

MONSIEUR CHATELARD TAKES THE WHEEL

Sallie Kingsbury would have given up the ghost without more ado, had she known what secular and unministerial passions were converging about Parson Thayer’s peaceful library.  As it was, she had a distinct feeling that life wasn’t as simple as it had been heretofore, and that there were puzzling problems to solve.  She was almost certain that she had caught Mr. Hand using an oath; though when she charged him with it, he had said that he had been talking Spanish to himself—­he always did when he was alone.  Sallie didn’t exactly know the answer to that, but told him that she hoped he would remember that she was a professor.  “What’s that?” inquired Hand.

“It’s a Christian in good and regular standing, and it’s what you ought to be,” said Sallie.

And now that nice Mr. Chamberlain, whom she had fed in the early morning, had dashed up to the kitchen door behind Little Simon’s best horse, deposited a man from Charlesport, and then had disappeared.  The man had also unceremoniously left her kitchen.  He might be a minister brought there to officiate at the church on the following Sabbath, Sallie surmised; but on second thought she dismissed the idea.  He didn’t look like any minister she had ever seen, and was very far indeed from the Parson Thayer type.

Hercules Thayer’s business, including his ministerial duties, had formed the basis and staple of Sallie’s affectionate interest for seventeen years, and it wasn’t her nature to give up that interest, now that the chief actor had stepped from the stage.  So she speculated and wondered, while she did more than her share of the work.

She picked radishes from the garden for supper, threw white screening over the imposing loaves of bread still cooling on the side table, and was sharpening a knife on a whetstone, preparatory to carving thin slices from a veal loaf that stood near by, when she was accosted by some one appearing suddenly in the doorway.

“Is this the Red House?” It was a cool, sharp voice, sounding even more outlandish than Mr. Hand’s.  Sallie turned deliberately toward the door and surveyed the new-comer.

“Well, yes; I guess so.  But you don’t need to scare the daylights outer me, that way.”