As he drew near the house he
found himself repeating Stringer's broad Yorkshire--"What wor that
lawyer-clerk chap fro' Barford--Pratt--doin' about theer? What reight
had he to be prowlin' round t' neighbourhood o' that bridge, and at that
time? Come, now--theer's a tickler for somebody!" And even as he smiled
at the remembrance of the whole rustic conversation of the previous
evening, and thought that the blacksmith's question certainly might be a
ticklish one--for somebody--he looked up from the frosted grass at his
feet, and saw Pratt.
Pratt, a professional-looking bag in his hand, a morning newspaper under
the other arm, was standing at the gate of one of the numerous
shrubberies which flanked the Grange, talking to a woman who leaned over
it. Collingwood recognized her as a person whom he had twice seen in the
house during his visits on the day before---a middle-aged, slightly
built woman, neatly dressed in black, and wearing a sort of nurse's cap
which seemed to denote some degree of domestic servitude. She was a
woman who had once been pretty, and who still retained much of her good
looks; she was also evidently of considerable shrewdness and
intelligence and possessed a pair of remarkably quick eyes--the sort of
eyes, thought Collingwood, that see everything that happens within their
range of vision. And she had a firm chin and a mouth which expressed
determination; he had seen all that as she exchanged some conversation
with the old butler in Collingwood's presence--a noticeable woman
altogether.
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