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However, the identity of this woman with Grace was by no means certain; but they plodded along the street. Percombe, the hair-dresser, who had despoiled Marty of her tresses, was standing at his door, and they duly put inquiries to him. "Ah how's Little Hintock folk by now?" he said, before replying.
Percombe, though he had nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked thenceforward.
Giles saw their eloquent look on this day of transparency, but could not construe it. He turned into the inn-yard. Marty, following the same track, marched promptly to the hair-dresser's, Mr. Percombe's. Percombe was the chief of his trade in Sherton Abbas.
The girl regarded him reflectively. "Barber Percombe," she said, "I know who 'tis. 'Tis she at the House Mrs. Charmond!" "That's my secret. However, if you agree to let me have it, I'll tell you in confidence." "I'll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. It is Mrs. Charmond." The barber dropped his voice. "Well it is.
Percombe, you look as unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. Surely you have not come out here on my account for " "Yes to have your answer about this." He touched her head with his cane, and she winced. "Do you agree?" he continued. "It is necessary that I should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it takes time to make up." "Don't press me it worries me.
Percombe made it his business to stop opposite the casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here.
However, mind what I ask." "She's not going to get him through me." Percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "Marty South," he said, with deliberate emphasis, "YOU'VE GOT A LOVER YOURSELF, and that's why you won't let it go!"
The passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of the van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting forward. "'Tis Barber Percombe he that's got the waxen woman in his window at the top of Abbey Street," said one.
"No, no, no!" she cried, beginning to be much agitated. "You are a-tempting me, Mr. Percombe. You go on like the Devil to Dr. Faustus in the penny book. But I don't want your money, and won't agree. Why did you come? I said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, that I didn't mean to sell my hair!" The speaker was hot and stern. "Marty, now hearken.
The lady that wants it wants it badly. And, between you and me, you'd better let her have it. 'Twill be bad for you if you don't." "Bad for me? Who is she, then?" The barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. "I am not at liberty to tell you. And as she is going abroad soon it makes no difference who she is at all." "She wants it to go abroad wi'?" Percombe assented by a nod.
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