“You accursed hag,” said the baronet, whose vexation at meeting her was for the moment beyond any superstitious impression which he felt, “what brought you here? What devil sent you across my path now? Who are you, or what are you, for you look like a libel on humanity?” “If I don't,” she replied, bitterly, “I know who does. There is not much beauty between us, Thomas Gourlay.” “What do you mean by Thomas Gourlay, you sorceress?” “You'll come to know that some day before you die, Thomas; perhaps sooner than you can think or dream of.” “How can you tell that, you irreverent old viper?” “I could tell you much more than that, Thomas,” she replied, showing her corpse-like teeth with a ghastly smile of mocking bitterness that was fearful. The Black Baronet, in spite of himself, began to feel somewhat uneasy, for, in fact, there appeared such a wild but confident significance in her manner and language that he deemed it wiser to change his tactics with the woman, and soothe her a little if he could. In truth, her words agitated him so much that he unconsciously pulled out of his waistcoat pocket the key of Lucy's room, and began to dangle with it as he contemplated her with something like alarm. “My poor woman, you must be raving,” he replied. “What could a destitute creature like you know about my affairs? I don't remember that I ever saw you before.” “That's not the question, Thomas Gourlay, but the question is, what have you done with the child of your eldest brother, the lawful heir of the property and title that you now bear, and bear unjustly.” He was much startled by this allusion, for although aware that the disappearance of the child in question had been for many long years well known, yet, involved, as it was, in unaccountable mystery, still the circumstance had never been forgotten. “That's an old story, my good woman,” he replied. “You don't charge me, I hope, as some have done, with making away with him? You might as well charge me with kidnapping my own son, you foolish woman, who, you know, I suppose, disappeared very soon after the other.” “I know he did,” she replied; “but neither I nor any one else ever charged you with that act; and I know there are a great many of opinion that both acts were committed by some common enemy to your house, who wished, for some unknown cause of hatred, to extinguish your whole family. That is, indeed, the best defence you have for the disappearance of your brother's son; but, mark me, Thomas Gourlay--that defence will not pass with God, with me, nor with your own heart. I have my own opinion upon that subject, as well as upon many others. You may ask your own conscience, Thomas Gourlay, but he'll be a close friend of yours that will ever hear its answer.” “And is this all you had to say to me, you ill-thinking old vermin.” he replied, again losing his temper. “No,” she answered, “I wish to tell your fortune; and you will do well to listen to me.”