She had come on
foot from the station and the exercise had done her good. It had
been a deliciously soft balmy afternoon, but with the fall of
dusk a heavy mist had come creeping up from the sodden, low-lying
fields and was spreading out over the neglected garden of Mr.
Bellward's villa as Barbara entered the avenue.
The damp gloom of the place, however, depressed her not at all.
She exulted in the change of scene and the fresh air; besides,
she knew that the presence of Desmond Okewood would dispel the
vague fears that had hung over her incessantly ever since her
father's murder. She had only met him twice, she told herself
when this thought occurred to her, but there was something
bracing and dependable about him that was just the tonic she
wanted.
A porter at the station, who was very intelligent as country
porters go, had told her the way to the Mill House. The way was
not easy to find for there were various turns to make but, with
the aid of such landmarks as an occasional inn, a pond or a barn,
given her by the friendly porter, Barbara reached her
destination. Under the porch she pulled the handle of the bell,
all dank and glistening with moisture, and heard it tinkle loudly
somewhere within the house.
How lonely the place was, thought Barbara with a little shiver!
The fog was growing thicker every minute and now seemed suspended
like a vast curtain between her and the drive.
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