It was owing to that surprised, long-drawn-out whistling sound that the owner of the pretty hands had become suddenly, affrightedly, aware that someone was there, outside the window, staring down, and so of course seeing the task on which the two pretty little hands were engaged.
Now, the owner of that pair of now shaking little hands had felt quite sure that no one could possibly see what they were engaged in doing--for the window on the ledge of which the medicine bottles were standing looked out on what was practically a blank wall.

But the man whose long, surprised whistle had so suddenly scared her, happened at that moment to be sitting astride the top of the blank wall, engaged in the legitimate occupation of sticking bits of broken bottles into putty.

The man was Piper, and doubtless the trifling incident had long since slipped his mind, for that same afternoon his master, Colonel Crofton, had committed suicide in a fit of depression owing to shell shock.
Enid Crofton opened her eyes wide, and the sort of vision, or nightmare--call it what you will--faded at once.
It was a nightmare she had constantly experienced during the first few nights which had succeeded her husband's death.

But since the inquest she had no longer been haunted by that scene--the double scene of the hands, the pretty little hands, engaged in that simple, almost mechanical, action of pouring the contents of one bottle into another, and the vision of the man on the wall looking down, slantwise, through the window, and uttering that queer, long-drawn-out whistle of utter surprise.
When at last Mrs.Crofton had had to explain regretfully to clever, capable Piper that she could no longer afford to keep him on, they had parted the best of friends.

She had made him the handsome present of twenty-five pounds, for he had been a most excellent servant to her late husband.