Helmsley, who happened to be at work basket-making, looked up, but made no reply. Whereupon Arbroath turned upon Mary-- "Is this man a relative of yours?" he asked. Mary had risen from her chair out of ordinary civility as the clergyman entered, and now replied quietly. "No, sir." "Oh! Then what is he doing here?" "You can see what he is doing,"--she answered, with a slight smile--"He is making baskets." "He is a tramp!" said Arbroath, pointing an inflexible finger at him--"I saw him last summer smoking and drinking with a gang of low ruffians at a roadside inn called 'The Trusty Man'!" And he advanced a step towards Helmsley--"Didn't I see you there?" Helmsley looked straight at him. "You did." "You told me you were tramping to Cornwall." "So I was." "Then what are you doing here?" "Earning a living." Arbroath turned sharply on Mary. "Is that true?" "Of course it is true,"--she replied--"Why should he tell you a lie?" "Does he lodge with you?" "Yes." Arbroath paused a moment, his little brown eyes sparkling vindictively. "Well, you had better be careful he does not rob you!" he said. "For I can prove that he seemed to be very good friends with that notorious rascal Tom o' the Gleam who murdered a nobleman at Blue Anchor last summer, and who would have hung for his crime if he had not fortunately saved the expense of a rope by dying." Helmsley, bending over his basket-weaving, suddenly straightened himself and looked the clergyman full in the face. "I never knew Tom o' the Gleam till that night on which you saw me at 'The Trusty Man,'" he said--"But I know he had terrible provocation for the murder he committed. I saw that murder done!" "You saw it done!" exclaimed Arbroath--"And you are here?" "Why should I not be here?" demanded Helmsley--"Would you have expected me to stay _there_? I was only one of many witnesses to that terrible deed of vengeance--but, as God lives, it was a just vengeance!" "Just? You call murder just!" and Arbroath gave a gesture of scorn and horror--"And you,"--he continued, turning to Mary indignantly--"can allow a ruffian like this to live in your house?" "He is no ruffian,"--said Mary steadily,--"Nor was Tom o' the Gleam a ruffian either. He was well-known in these parts for many and many a deed of kindness. The real ruffian was the man who killed his little child. Indeed I think he was the chief murderer." "Oh, you do, do you?" and Mr. Arbroath frowned heavily--"And you call yourself a respectable woman?" Mary smiled, and resuming her seat, bent her head intently over her lace work. Arbroath stood irresolute, gazing at her. He was a sensual man, and her physical beauty annoyed him. He would have liked to sit down alone with her and take her hand in his own and talk to her about her "soul" while gloating over her body. But in the "old tramp's" presence there was nothing to be done. So he assumed a high moral tone.