But the man whose long,
surprised whistle had so suddenly scared her, happened at that moment to
be sitting astride the top of the blank wall, engaged in the legitimate
occupation of sticking bits of broken bottles into putty. The man was
Piper, and doubtless the trifling incident had long since slipped his
mind, for that same afternoon his master, Colonel Crofton, had committed
suicide in a fit of depression owing to shell shock.
Enid Crofton opened her eyes wide, and the sort of vision, or
nightmare--call it what you will--faded at once.
It was a nightmare she had constantly experienced during the first few
nights which had succeeded her husband's death. But since the inquest she
had no longer been haunted by that scene--the double scene of the hands,
the pretty little hands, engaged in that simple, almost mechanical,
action of pouring the contents of one bottle into another, and the vision
of the man on the wall looking down, slantwise, through the window, and
uttering that queer, long-drawn-out whistle of utter surprise.
When at last Mrs. Crofton had had to explain regretfully to clever,
capable Piper that she could no longer afford to keep him on, they had
parted the best of friends.
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