“What were you doing on Hawkill Cliffs?” “Sleeping in the wagon.” “And you really met this mysterious wanderer?” “Sure as you’re standing there.” “What passed between you?” “I gave her good evening, and she spoke to me fair enough but queer, and said that my children’s children might remember the day. Now, I ain’t got any children to have children; so I wouldn’t have thought of it again but for the man that came inquiring after her.” “When was that?” “Not fifteen minutes after.” “Did you tell the crowd here that?” “Yep. I sold two dozen wedding-rings on the strength and romance of that point. From my description they allowed it was a painter man named Sedgwick. I thought maybe I’d call in and have him touch up the wagon a bit where she’s rusty.” “And you heard the woman cry out less than an hour later?” “That’s a curious thing. I’d have almost sworn it was a man’s voice that yelled. It went through me like a sharpened icicle.” “All this was night before last. What have you been doing meantime?” “Drove over to Marcus Corners to trade yesterday. There I heard about the murder and came back here to make a little business out of it. I’ve done fine.” “You made no attempt to trace the woman?” “Look here!” said Simon P. Groot after a spell of thoughtfulness. “Your ten dollars is good, and you’re a gent, all right; but I think I’ve talked a little too much with my mouth around here, and I’m afraid they might dig up this lady and start something new and want me for a witness. Witnessing is bad for business.” “I’m safe,” said Kent. “So far so good. Now, would it be worth five dollars to you, likely, a relic of the murderer?” suggested the old man. “Quite likely.” “Mum’s the word, then, for my part in it. That next morning I followed her trail a ways. You see, the yell in the night had got me interested. It was an easy trail to follow for a man that’s acquainted in the woods, and I used to be a yarb-grubber. Do a little of it now, sometimes. She’d met somebody in a thicket. I found the string and the paper of the bundle she was carrying, there. Then there was a fight of some sort; for the twigs were broken right to the edge of the thicket, and the ground stamped down. One or both of ’em must have broken out into the open, and I lost the trail. But this is what I found on a hazel bush. Do I win the five on it?” Kent’s eyes drooped, fixing themselves on a small object which the other had laid on his knee. His lips pursed. Nothing that could be interpreted as an answer came from them. Simon P. Groot waited with patience. Finally he said: “That’s an awful pretty tune you’re whistlin’, mister, but sad, and terrible long. What about the five? Do we trade?” The car came to a stop. Digging into his pocket, Kent produced a bill which he handed over, and still whistling the long-meter _China_, took possession of Simon P. Groot’s “relic”. It was an embroidered silver star, with a few torn wisps of cloth clinging to it.