"Yes, but a likeness might have struck and startled you." "No, Sir--no, Master David, not him; surely not him. I can't bring it to mind, but it frightens me. It _is_ queer, Sir. All I can say for certain is this, Master David. The minute I heard his voice, and got sight of his face, like that," and she dropped her hand on the table, "the thought of that awful night came back, bright and cold, Sir, and them black shadows--'twas all about me, I can't tell how, and I hope I may never see him again." "Do you think there was another man by, besides the two villains in the gig?" suggested David Arden. "Not a living soul except them and myself. Poor Master Harry said to Tom Clinton, ye'll mind, for he lived half-an-hour after, and spoke a little, though faint and with great labour, and says he, 'There were two: Yelland Mace killed me, and Tom Todry took the money.' Tom Clinton heard him say that, and swore to it before the justice o' peace, and after, on the trial. No, no, there wasn't a soul there but they two villains, and the poor dear lad they murdered, and me and Tom Clinton, that might as well 'a' bin in York for any good we did. Oh, no, Heaven forbid I should be so unmannerly as to compare a gentleman like Mr. Longcluse to such folk as that! Oh, lawk, no, Sir! But there's something, there's a look--or a sound in his voice--I can't get round it quite--but it reminds me of something about that night, with a start like, I can't tell how--something unlucky and awful--and I would not see him again for a deal." "Well, Martha, a thousand thanks. I'm puzzled, as I said. Perhaps it is only something strange in his face that caused that odd misgiving. For _I_ who saw but one of the wretches engaged in the crime, the man who was convicted, who certainly did not in the slightest degree resemble Mr. Longcluse, experienced the same unpleasant sensation on first seeing him. I don't know how it is, Martha, but the idea clings to me, as it does to you. Some light may come. Something may turn up. I can't get it out of my mind that somehow--it may be circuitously--he has, at least, got the thread in his fingers that may lead us right. Good-night, Martha. I have got the Bible with large print you wished for; I hope you will like the binding. And now, God bless you! It is time I should bid them good-night up-stairs. Farewell, my good old friend." And, so saying, he shook her hard and shrivelled hand. His steps echoed along the long tiled passage, with its one dim light, and his mind was still haunted by its one obscure idea. "It is strange," he thought, "that Martha and I--the only two living persons, I believe, who care still for poor Harry, and feel alike respecting the expiation that is due to his memory--should both have been struck with the same odd feeling on seeing Longcluse. From that white sinister face, it seems to me, I know not why, will shine the light that will yet clear all up." CHAPTER XXI. A WALK BY MOONLIGHT.