shake of the hand when he got into the buggy. Gordon looked at James
again with his gloomy face, as he took up the lines. "Failed in the race
again," he said. "Now we've got to hustle, for I have eight calls to
make before dinner, and it's late. I ought to change horses, but there
isn't time."




CHAPTER IV


The weeks went on, and James led the same life with practically no
variation. The sense of a mystery or mysteries about the house never
left him, and it irritated him. He was not curious; he did not in the
least care to know in what the mystery consisted, but the fact of
concealment itself was obnoxious to him. As for himself, he never
concealed anything, and when it came to mystery, he had a vague idea of
something shameful, if not criminal. Doctor Gordon's incomprehensible
changes of mood, of almost more than mood, of character even, disturbed
him. Why a man should be one hour a country buffoon, the next an
absorbed gentleman, he could not understand. And he could not understand
also why Clemency had never left the house since he had met her on the
day of his arrival. She evidently was herself angry and sulky at being
housed, but she did not attempt to resist, and whenever Mrs. Ewing
expressed anxiety about her health, she laughed it off, and made some
excuse, such as the badness of the roads, or some Christmas work which
she was anxious to finish. However, at last Mrs. Ewing's concern grew so
evident that Doctor Gordon at dinner one day gave what seemed a
plausible reason for Clemency remaining indoors. "If you will have it,