"Very soon, I believe, as they are packing, but where they are going I don't know. Sarah Jope, the servant, whose sister is at the school, came flying home last night to her mother with a cock and bull story about a ghost at the Manor. This morning she went to get her belongings, as she insists upon leaving the house. She found Mrs. Vand and her husband packing for immediate departure and was bundled out by her indignant mistress, boxes and all, with a flea in her ear. Sarah Jope's sister told me this just before I came home to dinner." "The Vands going away!" said Bella in dismay. This seemed to prove that they were guilty, and wished to escape. "I thought they were going to wait for the harvest home." "I daresay they will be back in a month, and the Bleacres corn won't be reaped until then. I only wish they would remain away altogether. Your aunt is a horrid woman, Bella, though her husband is a dear." Bella did not echo the compliment, for, after what she had seen on the previous night, she was inclined to think that Henry Vand was the worse of the two, evil as his wife might be. At all events, he was the stronger, and Rosamund Vand was a mere tool in his hands. She was on the point of going to Cyril's lodgings to warn him and Durgo of this projected departure of the Manor-house inhabitants, but on reflection she concluded to wait until he returned from Mrs. Tunks' hut. After all, the Vands could not leave Marshely before night-fall, and would have to pass through the village on their way to the far-distant railway station. If necessary they could thus be intercepted at the eleventh hour. Mrs. Tunks was seated by the fire in her dingy hut, absorbed in her own thoughts, which she assisted by smoking a dirty black pipe. In the next room her grandson still turned and tossed, watched by a bright-eyed gipsy girl, whom the old woman had engaged from a passing family of her kinsfolk. But the man no longer raved, as the worst of the delirium had passed. He was sensible enough, but weak, and looked the mere shadow of his former stalwart self. Mrs. Tunks feared lest he should die, and was much disturbed in consequence, as he was her sole support. Without her grandson's earnings she could not hope to keep a roof above her head, as her fees for consultations as a wise woman were woefully small. She did not dare to make them larger in case her visitors should warn the police of her doings. And Mrs. Tunks, for obvious reasons, did not wish for an interview with Dutton, the village constable. Smoking her pipe, crouching over the smouldering fire, and wondering how she could obtain money, the old woman did not hear the door open and shut. Not until a black hand was laid on her shoulder did she turn, to see that Durgo was in the hut with Cyril behind him. Paying no attention to the white man, she rose and fawned like a dog on the black.