He talked glibly, but was such a repulsive-looking personage as to render
his long stay objectionable. In order to be rid of him Mrs. Barkswell
made a small purchase, after which, finding that he could sell nothing
further, the peddler thrust his wares back into the tin box and shuffled
out of the room.
"Pretty place you've got here," he remarked, as he stood on the porch and
gazed about him.
"Yes," admitted Barkswell.
"You own it?"
"Yes."
"Your name is--"
"Bordine."
The man uttered the name involuntarily. He had been acting as Bordine,
and somehow, he seemed growing into that personage more and more.
"Well, well," grunted the peddler, holding out his hand, "You an' I ought
to be acquainted. My wife is your own aunt, did you know it?"
Andrew Barkswell regarded the speaker in astonishment. He thought he
detected an ironical ring in the man's voice, but when he glanced into
the fellow's face he seemed honest enough, in fact the red eye failed to
show the least feeling on the subject--the one under the black patch was,
of course, as unspeakable as the tomb.
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