Still, he felt
softly for the tiny pistol he always carried in his big waistcoat pocket,
and it comforted him.
Beyond the corner of the house Crozier paused and took a key from his
pocket. It opened a side door to his own room, seldom used, since it was
always so pleasant in this happy home to go through the main living-room,
which every one liked so much that, though it was not the dining-room, it
was generally used as such, and though it was not the parlour, it was its
frequent substitute. Opening the door, Crozier stepped aside to let
Burlingame pass. It was two years since Burlingame had been in this
room, and then he had entered it without invitation. His inquisitiveness
had led him to explore it with no good intent when he lived in the house.
Entering now, he gave it quick scrutiny. It was clear he was looking for
something in particular. He was, in fact, searching for signs of its
occupancy by another than Shiel Crozier--tokens of a woman's presence.
There was, however, no sign at all of that, though there were signs of
a woman's care and attention in a number of little things--homelike,
solicitous, perhaps affectionate care and attention. Certainly the
spotless pillows, the pretty curtains, the pincushion, and charmingly
valanced bed and shelves, cheap though the material was, showed a woman's
very friendly care.
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