“Aye, there were three concerned in it, as I imagine, and yet ’tis but imagination, for proof there is none ... so if you know, or can aid me——” “No,” she cried fiercely—“no! And wherefore mix y’self in the black business—why?” “For many reasons,” he answered thoughtfully. “Mayhap because I am an idler and the matter puzzles me, mayhap because I think Justice hath been cheated too long, or mayhap because I have reasons to suspect——” “Hush!” she cried. “Name no names! What I know I do know, but ’twouldn’t be no good to your court lawyers; they would but laugh at an old woman’s dreams.... But for yourself ... ah, for yourself, young master, let be—let be, I tell ’ee!” And, reaching out suddenly, she seized his arm and shook it so that he wondered at the strength of her aged fingers. “Let be!” she repeated, her voice sinking to a pleading whisper. “The Downs hereaways has many secrets, an’ who be you t’ expect to learn what they bean’t nowise willin’ to tell? So ha’ done, young sir, you bean’t old enough to die yet awhile——” “To die?” repeated Sir John, startled by her tone and the fixed intensity of her look. “Die!” She nodded. “Them as seeks murderers seeks death, for Murder will murder to hide murder.” “And you think that in attempting to solve this mystery I run a certain danger, Penelope?” “I know it!” she answered. “None the less, I feel I must attempt it ... the poor girl vanished, you’ll remember, and was never heard of more.” “An’ never will be!” “And,” said he, frowning, “there may be other such hateful doings.” “For sure!” She nodded again. “Hundreds—thousands, ’till the world grows better!” “Shall I succeed in this quest?” “No!” “Wherefore not, Penelope?” “Because you’ll tak’ up wi’ a better thing!” “What do you mean?” “Love!” “Hum!” quoth Sir John, and became thoughtful awhile. “Shall I succeed in my love, think ye?” he questioned at last. “Only when Hope be dead.” “Penelope,” said he, smiling as he leaned to touch her clasped hands, “how much of all this is pure guesswork?” “Aye me,” she sighed, “you be tur’ble like your father afore ye——” “My”—Sir John sat up and blinked—“my father, say you?” “Aye, sure,” she sighed; “he would never believe, never be warned! Happen if he had—ah, if only he had, ’tis like he wouldn’t ha’ died so young, away off in the cruel French wars, Sir John.” “You—you know me?” he stammered. “Aye, indeed, Sir John!” “When did you recognise me?” “’Twas when ye picked up my cabbage for me, sir.” “And how did you know?” “Happen ’twas y’r eyes ... or a memory o’ the years ... or happen because o’ my dreams, an’ I ... just knew.” Sir John, leaning back in his chair, viewed her with a new respect. “Penelope,” said he, “thou’rt a strange and wonderful woman!” “So they stone me, sir, an’ call me ‘witch’!” “Aye,” he sighed, “because the vulgar cannot love anything different to themselves.... And you knew my father?”