“And—­did you see a man who limped?” Gertrude put in, as he stopped for breath.

“Not at the train, ma’m,” he said.  “No such person got on here to-day.  But I’ll tell you where I did see a man that limped.  I didn’t wait till the fire company left; there’s a fast freight goes through at four forty-five, and I had to get down to the station.  I seen there wasn’t much more to do anyhow at the fire—­we’d got the flames under control”—­Gertrude looked at me and smiled—­“so I started down the hill.  There was folks here and there goin’ home, and along by the path to the Country Club I seen two men.  One was a short fellow.  He was sitting on a big rock, his back to me, and he had something white in his hand, as if he was tying up his foot.  After I’d gone on a piece I looked back, and he was hobbling on and—­excuse me, miss—­he was swearing something sickening.”

“Did they go toward the club?” Gertrude asked suddenly, leaning forward.

“No, miss.  I think they came into the village.  I didn’t get a look at their faces, but I know every chick and child in the place, and everybody knows me.  When they didn’t shout at me—­in my uniform, you know—­I took it they were strangers.”

So all we had for our afternoon’s work was this:  some one had been shot by the bullet that went through the door; he had not left the village, and he had not called in a physician.  Also, Doctor Walker knew who Lucien Wallace was, and his very denial made me confident that, in that one direction at least, we were on the right track.

The thought that the detective would be there that night was the most cheering thing of all, and I think even Gertrude was glad of it.  Driving home that afternoon, I saw her in the clear sunlight for the first time in several days, and I was startled to see how ill she looked.  She was thin and colorless, and all her bright animation was gone.

“Gertrude,” I said, “I have been a very selfish old woman.  You are going to leave this miserable house to-night.  Annie Morton is going to Scotland next week, and you shall go right with her.”

To my surprise, she flushed painfully.

“I don’t want to go, Aunt Ray,” she said.  “Don’t make me leave now.”

“You are losing your health and your good looks,” I said decidedly.  “You should have a change.”

“I shan’t stir a foot.”  She was equally decided.  Then, more lightly:  “Why, you and Liddy need me to arbitrate between you every day in the week.”

Perhaps I was growing suspicious of every one, but it seemed to me that Gertrude’s gaiety was forced and artificial.  I watched her covertly during the rest of the drive, and I did not like the two spots of crimson in her pale cheeks.  But I said nothing more about sending her to Scotland:  I knew she would not go.

CHAPTER XXV

A VISIT FROM LOUISE