“Thanks—I think I shall do very well here,” replied Crowdy. “And, if you only knew, old Betty, whose eyes are looking at that dear old grey head of yours, at this moment, I think you’d jump out of your skin.” This latter, it is scarcely necessary to add, passed through his thoughts only, and not his lips. Presently, to his astonishment, the old woman, after making several false starts, got up quickly, and came round the bar, and faced him; he saw that there was some extraordinary excitement upon her; he could hear one foot nervously beating the ground. “Master Dandy,” she said, in a voice little above a whisper—“I must speak to you!” On the instant, the man felt that she had made some discovery—that she knew he was not Dandy Chater. But, the next moment, he saw that this was a matter which had been consuming her for some time, and had now boiled up, as it were, and could be held no longer—some grievance which she imagined she had against Dandy Chater. Knowing that he had a part to play, he spoke lightly and easily. “Well—I’m here; speak to me, by all means,” he said, with a little laugh. “Not here—not here, Master Dandy,” she said, hurriedly. “If you would be so kind as step in here, there ain’t likely to be no one in this time o’ the day, Master Dandy.” She indicated, as she spoke, the door of the little parlour near at hand. “As you will,” replied Crowdy; and he followed her into the room, inwardly wondering what was going to happen. Inside the room, he seated himself upon a table, and looked questioningly at her. She was evidently at a loss how to proceed, for a few moments, and stood nervously beating her fingers on the back of a chair. When, at last, she broke the silence, her question was a startling one. “Master Dandy—for the love of God—where’s Patience Miller?” The man stared at her in amazement. He knew the name in an instant—remembered the interview, in the darkness and the rain, upon the road outside the village—almost felt again, for an instant, the warm pressure of the girl’s lips upon his. He shook his head, in a dazed fashion. “How on earth should I know?” he asked, slowly. “How should anybody know better, Master Dandy?” she retorted, in the same suppressed excited voice. “Master Dandy—I’m an old woman, and poor Patience, ’avin’ no mother of ’er own, ’as turned to me—natural-like—these many years. There’s been w’ispers ’ere, an’ w’ispers there, this ever so long; but it was only the other night as I got it all from ’er.” The good woman was quivering with excitement, and her fingers were beating a rapid tattoo on the back of the chair. “All what?” asked Crowdy, faintly. “The ’ole story, Master Dandy,” she replied promptly. “Ah—it ain’t no use your tryin’ to deny it, sir; I knows the truth w’en I ’ears it—’specially w’en it comes to me wi’ tears an’ sighs. You’ve led ’er wrong, Master Dandy—you know you ’ave; and now—wot’s become of ’er?” “I tell you I know nothing about the girl,” replied Crowdy, doggedly.