“The mistress had a telegram from London,” he said. “Leastways a telegram came for her this morning.” Bessie stared at him with her eyes widely opened. “I didn’t telegraph,” she said. “I meant to take a fly home.” “Well,” he laughed, “here we are, you see, and you’d better get in, anyhow.” Puzzled and bewildered, she was about to follow his sensible recommendation, when a woman, with a child in her arms, came up quickly, and, pulling at her jacket, said, with a mixture of timidity and earnestness: “Stop, stop, for God’s sake, miss. I--I must speak to you! I’ve been waiting and watching----” Bessie turned affrightedly, and, as the light fell upon her face, the woman shrank back with a cry of disappointment. “Oh!” she cried, “I thought it was the young lady--leastways Mrs. Bradstone.” “No, I am her maid,” said Bessie. “What is it? Are you ill?” for the woman looked worn and pale, and there were deep lines of anxiety and trouble on her thin face. “Ill? Yes, miss. I’m ill enough, but it isn’t that. I’m no account. It was----” She looked round fearfully. “Come out of hearing, miss!” she whispered, imploringly. “It may be too late--but it’s not my fault. I’ve waited and watched, but I’m watched, too. It’s about the--murder, miss!” Bessie’s courage and self-possession came back in an instant. “Wait a moment, James,” she said to the coachman, and she followed the woman into the shadow of the station wall. “I thought it was the young lady,” she said, speaking timidly, and with palpable agitation, and hushing the child she carried under her shawl. “I tried to speak to her before, by the lodge gate, where you lived.” “I remember,” said Bessie. “You are the gypsy woman.” “Yes, I’m Liz Lee,” assented the woman, “and I want to tell her something that I’m a’most afraid to whisper. I’m doing it at the risk of my life, miss, I am, indeed!” and she looked up with a piteous terror into Bessie’s eager eyes. “He’s promised to do for me, if I dare open my lips! And he’ll keep his promise!” “He? Who?” asked Bessie. “My husband,” came the reply. “He thinks I’m safe at the camp; but I slipped out--and followed the carriage; I thought I was going to meet the young lady.” She struggled for the breath which her agitation and alarm seemed to deprive her of; then, looking round fearfully, went on: “Is it true, miss, that he’ll be hung?” Bessie’s face paled. “Do you mean Mr. Faradeane?” The woman nodded, with a sob. “Yes, yes. Oh, miss, if they only knew! Him commit a murder! Why, he wouldn’t kick a dog as bit ’im, leave alone shoot a helpless woman!” Bessie could have fallen upon the poor creature’s neck. “Go on, go on!” she said, trembling. “You know something! You will not let him come to harm?”