For William Jones was genuinely afraid; his hereditary calm of mind was shaken, not so much with horror at a murderous deed, as with consternation that his lifelong secret had been discovered by one man, and might, sooner or later, be discovered by others. He did not put implicit faith even in Monk; it was his nature to trust nobody where money was concerned. As to returning to the cave until he had quite recovered his equanimity, that was out of the question. Even by daylight he avoided the spot with a holy horror. Only in his dreams, which were dark and troubled, did he visit it,--to see the face of the murdered man in the darkness, and the hand of the murdered man pointing at him with cold, decaying finger. The day after the murder he had been greatly unsettled by a visit from Tim Lenney, who demanded news of his master, and said that he had not returned to the caravan all night. Tim seemed greatly troubled, but gave vent to no very violent ebullitions of grief. When he was gone Matt sat by the fireside, and looked long and keenly at William Jones. “What are you staring at?” cried he, fidgeting uneasily under her gaze. “Nowt,” said Matt; “I were only wondering----” “Then don’t go wondering,” exclaimed the good man rather inconsistently. “_You_ mind your own business, and don’t be a fool!” And he turned testily and gazed at the fire. But Matt, whose eyes were full of a curious light, was not to be abashed. “Ain’t you well, William Jones?” she asked. “I’m well enough,--I am.” “It’s queer, ain’t it, that the painter chap never come home?” “How should I know?” growled William. “Maybe he’s gone back to where he come from.” “Or maybe he’s drownded? Or maybe summat else has happened to him?” suggested Matt. “Never you mind _him_, my gal. _He’s_ all right, never fear. And if he ain’t, it’s no affair o’ yours, or mine neither. _You_ go along out and play.” Matt went out as directed, and it was some hours before she returned. She found her guardian seated in his old place by the fire, looking at vacancy. He started violently as she entered, and made a clutch at the rude piece of ship’s iron which served as a poker. “Be it you, Matt? Lor’, how you startled me I I were--I were--taking a doze.” “I’ve been up yonder,” said Matt. “Up wheer?” “Up to the painter chap’s cart. He ain’t come back; and the man’s searchin’ for him all up and down the place.” Fortunately it was very dark, so that she could not see the expression of her hearer’s face. She walked to the fireplace, and, taking a box of lucifers from a ledge, began to procure a light, with the view of igniting the rushlight fixed to the table. But in a moment “William blew out the match, and snatched the box from her. “What are you doin’ of?” he cried. “Wasting the matches, as if they cost nowt. You’ll come to the workus, afore you’re done.”