Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to
pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and
looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old
woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her
and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons,
Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda,
while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of
the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might
mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the
secret of the past and the crisis of the present.
She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me.
"Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop
in Strelsau?"
"About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air
and arms akimbo.
"I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at
her.
"Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure
your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that
seemed only half genuine.
I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their
wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130