"Gawd's sake!" murmured Tom aside. "The man's potty!"
"Bush mad," supplemented Rackett, who was sitting in the buggy with his chin in his hand, intently listening to the queer, furtive, garrulous individual.
"Say, friend," he added aloud. "Go and ask your master if we harmless strangers can camp in the barn out of the wet."
"What might your names be, Mister?" asked the man.
"Mine's Dr. Rackett. This is Tom Ellis. And this is Jack Grant. And no harm in any of us."
"D'y' say Jack Grant? Would that be Mr. John Grant?" asked the man, galvanised by sudden excitement.
"Oh, Glory, Glory! Why didn't ye say so afore? Come in. Come in all of ye, come in! Come in, Mr. Grant! Come in!"
They got down, gave the reins to Sam, and were ready to follow the bearded man, looking one another in the face in amazement, and shaking their heads.
"Gawd Almighty, I'd rather keep out o' this!" murmured Tom, standing by his horse and keeping the rope of the pack-horse.
"Case of mistaken identity," said Rackett coolly. "Hang on, boys. We'll get a night's shelter."
A woman came out of the dilapidated stone house, clutching her hands in distress and agitation.
"Missus! Missus! Here he is at last. God be praised!" cried the bearded man. She ran up in sudden effusion of welcome, but he ordered her into the house to brighten up the fire, while he waved the way to the stables, knowing that horse comes before man, in the bush.
When they had shaken down in the stable, they left Sam to sleep there, while the three went across to the house. Tom was most unwilling.
The man was at the door, to usher them in.
"I've broke the news to him, sir!" he said in a mysterious voice to Jack, as he showed them into the parlour.
"What's your Master's name?" asked Rackett.
"Don't y' know y're at your destination?" whispered the man. "This is Mr. John Grant's. This is the place ye're looking for."
A melancholy room! The calico ceiling drooped, the window and front door were hermetically sealed, an ornate glass lamp shone in murky, lonely splendour upon a wool mat on a ricketty round table. Six chairs stood against the papered walls. Nothing more.
Tom wanted to beat it back to the kitchen, through which they had passed to get to this sarcophagus, and where a fire was burning and a woman was busy. But the man was tapping at another door, and listening anxiously before entering.