"I should think I don't," he broke out. "I'll tell 'e how that ---- served me. I was maybe a bit of a fool; anyways, I was a bit strong-headed, and when we got back to England I would live wi' 'im as his servant, though he didn't like it, and said I was too rough and clumsy, and so I war. But I got into his ways a bit, and live wi' 'im I would, for I didn't nohow feel safe about getting the coin, he war always moving about so. Often we had rows, and he used to say as he'd send me a-packing; but I only laughed at 'im. But that 'ere night, down at Porlock, yer remember it, he got to hear what I'd done, and he sent for me. 'Hilton,' he said, 'here's a month's wages, and you can go to the devil. I've done wi' you.' ''Ow about our little secret, mister?' I said, for I didn't think as he was noways in earnest, and he says, 'You're a fool. Hilton. You think you've got me in your power, but it's the stupidest mistake you ever made in your life. You can go and tell your secret to any one you like, and I wish you joy of those who'll believe yer.' And I saw then as I wor done, for of coors no one would believe me. They all said as it wor a bit o' spite because he'd given me the sack and so I went down, down, down, and here I am." "A poacher," I remarked. "I didn't say nowt about that," he answered, sullenly. "Wot more do yer want wi' me?" "A little family history, that's all. Whom did your master marry?" "Miss Saville, or some such name. She war a clergyman's daughter, and she died soon after the second child were born." "The second child! There is a daughter living at Devereux Court now--is the other one a son?" The man nodded sullenly. "And where is he?" "How the devil should I know! He war at college when I left Muster Rupert; ain't 'eard of 'im since! "Or of Rupert Devereux?" "No, I ain't 'eard of 'im. D'ye think I reads the sassiety papers down 'ere to know where all the fine folks is, 'cos I don't." I was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Of what use was this fellow's confession to me now that I had got it? Who would believe the word of such a disreputable vagabond against the word of Rupert Devereux? Still, I would have his confession--some day it might be useful. "Have you a candle?" I asked. The woman rose from her seat for the first time, and after groping about for a moment or two produced a few inches of tallow dip I struck a match, and, righting it, thrust it in the neck of a black bottle which she silently handed me. Then, in as few words as possible, I wrote down the substance of Hilton's confession and handed it to him, with the pencil, to sign. "If it only does 'im the harm I wish it will," he muttered, "it'll do. Now, mister," he went on, turning towards me half threateningly, half whiningly, "wot I wants to know is this--Be yer going to peach on me for that poaching job, and how in thunder's name did yer know where to find me?"