She was, for the time, worn out by her struggles, and her only answer was an insolent stare, and he produced the farmer's document and read it through to her. "And now," he said, eyeing her curiously, "shall I tell you who gave me the clue without which I should never have found that letter? It was a certain old man, whom I think you know, by name Portunus." Her face turned as pale as death, and in a low voice of horror she cried, "Long ago I guessed who he was, and feared that he might prove my undoing." Then her voice grew shrill with terror and her eyes became fixed, as if seeing some hideous vision, "The Silent People!" she screamed. "The dumb who speak! The bound who strike! I cherished and fed old Portunus like a tame bird. But what do the dead know of kindness?" "If old Portunus is he whom you take him to be, I fail to see that he has much cause for gratitude," said Master Nathaniel drily. "Well, he has taken his revenge, on you--and your accomplice." "My accomplice?" "Aye, on Endymion Leer." "Oh, Leer!" And she laughed scornfully. "It was a greater than Endymion Leer who ordered the death of farmer Gibberty." "Indeed?" "Yes. One who cares not for good and evil, and sows his commands like grain." "Whom do you mean?" Again she laughed scornfully. "Not one whom I would name to you. But set your mind at rest, he cannot be summoned in a court of law." She gave him a searching look, and said abruptly, "Who are you?" "My name is Nathaniel Chanticleer." "I thought as much!" she cried triumphantly. "I wasn't sure, but I thought I'd take no risks. However, you seem to bear a charmed life." "I suppose you are alluding to your kind thought for my comfort--putting that nice little death-box in my room to keep me warm, eh?" "Yes, that's it," she answered brazenly. Then a look of indescribable malice came into her face, and, with an evil smile, she said, "You see, you gave yourself away--without knowing it--at dinner." "Indeed? And how, may I ask?" At first she did not answer, but eyed him gloatingly as a cat might eye a mouse. And then she said slowly, "It was that pack of lies you told me about the doings of the lads at Moongrass. Your son isn't at Moongrass--nor ever has been, nor ever will be." "What do you mean?" he cried hoarsely. "Mean?" she said with a shrill, triumphant laugh. "I mean this--on the night of the thirty-first of October, when the Silent People are abroad, he heard Duke Aubrey's summons, and followed it across the hills." "Woman ... what ... what ... speak ... or ..." and the veins in Master Nathaniel's temples were swelling, and a fire seemed to have been lighted in his brain. Her laughter redoubled. "You'll never see your son again!" she jeered. "Young Ranulph Chanticleer has gone to the land whence none returns."