"Is that man gone? What are you doing, Caroline?" called the
invisible voice.
"Yes, he's gone. I was patting the dog," she answered boldly,
stepping through the dining-room into the pantry and glancing
hastily about. Only a plate of rolls was in sight; the place was
ostentatiously clean and orderly. She sighed and pushed through the
swinging door; the refrigerator was a more delicate affair. But
Maggie's broad back was bent over her ovenful, and Caroline clicked
the door-knob unchallenged.
Two chops sat sociably on a large plate; a little mound of spinach
rested on one side of them, a huge baked potato on the other. She
slid the plate softly from the metal shelf, peeping apprehensively
at Maggie, tumbled the rolls on to the top, and sped into the
dining-room. From a drawer in the sideboard she abstracted a silver
fork which she slipped into her pocket, adding, after a moment of
consideration, a salt-shaker. Stepping to the door, she paused on
the little porch for a hasty survey. The coast seemed clear, and she
sped across the yard, the silver jingling in her pocket. She was
safe from the back, but a flank movement on Maggie's part would
have been most disastrous, and it was with full appreciation of the
audacity of her performance that she scudded around the barn and
gained the cherry-tree behind it.
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