The Golden Rose by Fred M. White — Read

Mary Grover flew along the narrow path closely followed by her companion. She came at length to the open door of the house: a cheap lamp burned on the table in the hall. Lethbridge had noticed that the place was meanly furnished, and showed every sign of poverty, though scrupulously neat and clean and profusely adorned with flowers. On the left-hand side of the doorway was the dining-room, and beyond it a range of greenhouses out of all proportion to the size of the cottage. Hence the noise had come, and here a man was standing in all attitude of rage and fear, his hands uplifted and his head nodding towards one side of the greenhouse, where two or three large panes of glass had been displaced. There were broken pots upon the floor, and a confusion of trampled flowers spoke eloquently of a struggle.

The man was tall and thin. He had a white hatchet face and a profusion of grey hair on his head and chin. He resembled some prophet of old with the spirit of invective strong upon him. He had ceased to call out, but his jaws were working as if he were scolding in an inaudible voice. He appeared to be unconscious that he was no longer alone, even after Mary Grover had addressed him two or three times.