That at least was all I could see
on the blighting March morning after my tea with Jean Rendall. The chilly
damp weather had given place to chillier hard weather. With the
temperature below freezing and thin showers of dry snow driving up every
now and then before a biting nor'east wind, there was little temptation
to go abroad without excuse. My excuse was due in an hour's time when
Miss Rendall and Mr. Hobhouse proposed to encounter one another
accidentally on the road, and meantime I was turning away from the window
towards the fire when I heard the gravel crunch.
On general principles I turned back and looked out, to see a certain
small farmer approaching the front door. I knew the man slightly and
was not in the least interested in him. Presumably, I thought, it was
a call for the doctor; and then my attention was sharply caught. He
was carrying in his hand a fat little brown leather pocket book and in
an instant I had remembered where I had seen exactly such a pocket
book before.
A minute or two later it so chanced that as the maid was speaking to the
man at the door, the amiable Mr. Hobhouse came out into the hall, and in
his friendly way approached to see what the matter was; and very
interested indeed he became when he heard. The pocket book, said the
farmer, bore the name of James Bolton inside, and the maid was shuddering
over a dull stain on the cover when Mr.
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