books and flowers. It was an immense room, full of sunlight and color; and the table was set at one end in an alcove of windows that looked out on the valley far below. The sight of the fruit piled in a great wicker tray in the center of the table took his eyes and held them. “I have n’t had anything to eat since—” It seemed ages—“since I don’t know when.”
“Help yourself, Barney,” she said, as they sat down. “To the fruit. And tell us how you got here.”
He reached an orange, bit a wound in it—transparently embarrassed—and began to skin it with his fingers. “He—he lef’ me on the train,” he said, “fer a minute, an’ I jumped ’n—’n’ beat it—’n’ piked up the road—till I got here.”
“Who left you on the train?” Whately asked.
He looked up furtively at old Annie, who was bringing in the coffee. “The detective,” he said.
“What did the detective want you for?”
