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She
struggled against her sense of terror. After all there could be no real
danger, in the broad daylight, within the precincts of her own home,
within call of the household.
She seated herself on the bench by the unknown, willing to humour him a
little; and he turned himself about slowly, as if every bone in his body
were stiff with age, and looked at her with a deliberate scrutiny.


CHAPTER XXIV.
'NOW NOTHING LEFT TO LOVE OR HATE.'

The old man sat looking at Mary in silence for some moments; not a great
space of time, perhaps, as marked by the shadow on the dial behind them,
but to Mary that gaze was unpleasantly prolonged. He looked at her as if
he could read every pulsation in every fibre of her brain, and knew
exactly what it meant.
'Who are you?' he asked, at last.
'My name is Mary Haselden.'
'Haselden,' he repeated musingly, 'I have heard that name before.'
And then he resumed his former attitude, his chin resting on the handle
of his crutch-stick, his eyes bent upon the gravel path, their unholy
brightness hidden under the penthouse brows.


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