Geoffrey, amused at his imputation.

"Well," Harris went on imperturbably, "you can't tell the rights of them
stories. Will Brown, he's a liar, just like all the Browns; still this
time he seemed to think he was telling the truth. Looks like we were
going to have a blizzard, don't it?"

When they reached the McFarlane cottage, Mrs. McFarlane appeared bobbing
on the threshold. She was an old Scotch woman and covered all occasions
with courtesy. It appeared that Holland's telegram had been duly
telephoned from the office, but that her husband was down with
rheumatism, the second gardener dismissed, and the "boy" allowed to go
home to spend Christmas, so that there had been no one to send. Geoffrey
suggested that she might have telephoned to the local livery-stable, and
she was at once so overcome at her own stupidity that she could do
nothing but bob and murmur, until Geoffrey sent her away to get him
something to eat.

It was about ten o'clock, when he determined to take a turn about his
house. The next day he intended removing all valuables to the vaults of
the Hillsborough bank.

It was a long walk from the cottage, and Geoffrey, as he trudged up hill
against the wind, was surprised to find how much snow had already
fallen. He had expected to return to New York the next day, but now a
fair prospect of being stalled on the way presented itself. It took him
so much longer to reach the house than he had supposed, that he
abandoned all idea of entering it. It stood before him grimly like a
mountain of grey stone, its face plastered with snow. He walked round
it, feeling each door and window to be sure of the fastenings. Once past