The days passed, and there was no news of the absent man. Every day Matt went up to the caravan to make inquiries. At last, one afternoon, she returned looking greatly troubled; her eyes were red, too, as if she had been crying. “What’s the matter now?” demanded William, who had left his usual seat and was standing at the door. “Nowt,” said Matt, wiping her eyelids with the back of her hand. “Don’t you tell no lies. You’ve heerd summat? Stop! What’s that theer under your arm?” All at once he had perceived that she carried a large roll of something wrapped in brown paper. He took it from her, and opened it nervously. It was the crayon portrait of herself executed by the defunct artist. “Who gave you this here?” cried William Jones, trembling more than ever. “Tim.” “Who’s _he?_” “Him as come looking arter his master. The painter chap ain’t found; and now Tim’s goin’ away in the cart to tell his friends. And he give me this--my pictur’; he give me it to keep. His master said I were to have it; and I mean to keep it now he’s dead!” William Jones handed back the picture, and seemed relieved, indeed, when it was out of his hands. “Dead?” he muttered, not meeting Matt’s eyes, but looking right out to sea. “Who told you he were dead?” Matt did not reply, but gazed at William so long and so significantly, that the good man, conscious of her scrutiny, turned and plunged into the darkness of his dwelling. An hour later a loud voice summoned him forth. He went to the door, and there was Monk of Monkshurst. It was the first time they had met since they parted on the night of the murder. Monk was dressed in a dark summer suit, and looked unusually spick and span. “Where’s the girl?” he cried, after a whispered colloquy of some minutes. “Matt, where are you?” In answer to the call Matt appeared at the door. No sooner did she perceive Monk than she trembled violently, and went very pale. “Come here, Matt,” he said with an insinuating smile. “See! I’ve brought something for you--something pretty for you to wear.” As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small gold ring, set with turquoise stones. But Matt still trembled, and shrank away. “I don’t want it!--I sha’n’t wear it,” she cried. “Nonsense, Matt!” said Monk. “Why, it’s a ring fit for a lady. Come, let me put it on your finger.” So great seemed her agitation, so deep her dread of him, that she could not stir; so that when he approached, laughing, and caught her round the waist, he slipped the ring on her finger before she could resist. But it only remained there a moment. With a quick, sharp cry, she tore herself free, and, taking the ring off, threw it right away from her upon the sand. Then, with a wild gesture of fear and loathing, she rushed into the cottage. William Jones walked over and picked up the ring, while Monk stood scowling darkly after the fugitive. “What the devil ails the girl?” cried the latter, with a fierce oath, pocketing the present.