"
"Ah! that is a different matter," Fairley returned sharply. "What kind
of a welcome did you expect? Have you done aught to win a more tender
greeting?"
"I have done much to anger her by coming here," answered Crosby.
"You were not quarrelling when I entered just now. She spoke of
to-morrow. Does a woman leave anything for the morrow if she has no
interest in that morrow? You would make a poor lover, Master Crosby."
"To my knowledge I have not been cast for the part."
"We shall see," said Martin, "It's a poor fire that will not boil a
kettle, and she's a poor woman who cannot make a man love her if she
will. There's to-morrow, and after that you and I may talk a little more
freely, perhaps. For to-night I only want sleep. I can fiddle from dusk
to dawn and forget that I have not closed my eyes, but a night in the
saddle--ah! my poor knees, Master Crosby! I was never meant for a
horseman." And he laughed, the same notes in the laugh as came from the
fiddle when it laughed.
He was half a madman--Barbara Lanison had said so--and Crosby was
convinced that there was little information to be got out of him, either
then or at any other time.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183