Turning, he saw that the woman he had noticed in the field had left her work to come hurrying after him, and now stood, a little breathless, at his side. She had very kindly blue eyes, he observed, and a rather heavy Swedish face that lit up wonderfully when she smiled.
“You are Hugh Arnold, is it not so?” she said. “John Edmonds has told me that you would be here.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Hugh with relief, “I was just asking for him. Can you tell me where he is?”
The clerk, a sandy-haired, freckled youth, leaned over the desk and spoke eagerly.
“Why, haven’t you heard—?” he said, but the woman cut him short.
“I will tell the boy of that,” she announced with decision, then added to Hugh, “The two Edmonds are not here now, and it is best that you should come to stay at my house until they come again. This hotel is no fit place for you.”
To this last frank statement the clerk agreed with surprising warmth.
“We have some queer customers here at times,”
