To this house and these people Orde came direct from the greatness
of the wilderness and the ferocity of Hell's Half-Mile. Such
contrasts were possible even ten or fifteen years ago. The untamed
country lay at the doors of the most modern civilisation.
Newmark, reappearing one Sunday afternoon at the end of the two
weeks, was apparently bothered. He examined the Orde place for some
moments; walked on beyond it; finding nothing there, he returned,
and after some hesitation turned in up the tar sidewalk and pulled
at the old-fashioned wire bell-pull. Grandma Orde herself answered
the door.
At sight of her fine features, her dainty lace cap and mitts, and
the stiffness of her rustling black silks, Newmark took off his gray
felt hat.
"Good-afternoon," said he. "Will you kindly tell me where Mr. Orde
lives?"
"This is Mr. Orde's," replied the little old lady.
"Pardon me," persisted Newmark, "I am looking for Mr. Jack Orde, and
I was directed here. I am sorry to have troubled you."
"Mr. Jack Orde lives here," returned Grandma Orde. "He is my son.
Would you like to see him?"
"If you please," assented Newmark gravely, his thin, shrewd face
masking itself with its usual expression of quizzical cynicism.
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