"I shan't be a minute," he exclaimed, and a moment later Radmore heard
the little feet pattering down the carpetless back stairs, and then
scampering up again.
Timmy ran in breathlessly. "It's all right!" he exclaimed, "I can go
with you--Mrs. Crofton has got The Trellis House--I'll show you the way
there."
"Show me the way there?" repeated Radmore. "Why, I knew The Trellis House
from garret to cellar before you were born, young man."
In the hall Timmy gave a queer, side-long look at his companion. "Do you
think we'd better take Flick?" he asked doubtfully, "Mrs. Crofton doesn't
like dogs."
"Oh, yes, she does," Radmore spoke carelessly. "Flick was bred by Colonel
Crofton. I think she'll be very pleased to see him."
Timmy would have hotly resented being called cruel, and to animals he was
most humane, yet somehow he had enjoyed Mrs. Crofton's terror the other
night, and he was not unwilling to see a repetition of it. And so the
three set out--Timmy, Radmore, and Flick. Somehow it was a comfort to the
grown-up man to have the child with him. Had he been alone he would have
felt like a ghost walking up the quiet, empty village street. The
presence of the child and the dog made him feel so _real_.
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