“Whom do you mean by she?” asked Dunscomb. “Is it any one in this house—Mrs. Horton, for instance?” Another cunning look, with a shake of the head, for an answer in the negative. “Be you ’Squire Dunscomb, the great York lawyer?” asked the stranger, with interest. “Dunscomb is certainly my name—though I have not the pleasure of knowing yours.” “I haven’t got any name. They may ask me from morning to night, and I won’t tell. She won’t let me.” “By _she_, you again mean Mrs. Horton, I suppose?” “No I don’t. Mrs. Horton’s a _good_ woman; she gives me victuals and drink.” “Tell us whom you do mean, then.” “Won’t you tell?” “Not unless it be improper to keep the secret. Who is this _she_?” “Why, _she_.” “Ay, but who?” “Mary Monson. If you’re the great lawyer from York, and they say you be, you must know all about Mary Monson.” “This is very extraordinary!” said Dunscomb, regarding his companion, in surprise. “I _do_ know something about Mary Monson, but not _all_ about her. Can you tell me anything?” Here the stranger advanced a little from his corner, listened, as if fearful of being surprised, then laid a finger on his lip, and made the familiar sound for ‘hush.’ “Don’t let her hear you; if you do, you may be sorry for it. She’s a witch!” “Poor fellow!—she seems, in truth, to have bewitched you, as I dare say she may have done many another man.” “That has she! I wish you’d tell me what I want to know, if you really be the great lawyer from York.” “Put your questions, my friend; I’ll endeavour to answer them.” “Who set fire to the house? Can you tell me _that_?” “That is a secret yet to be discovered—do you happen to know anything about it?” “Do I?—I think I do. Ask Mary Monson; _she_ can tell you.” All this was so strange, that the whole party now gazed at each other in mute astonishment; McBrain bending his looks more intently on the stranger, in order to ascertain the true nature of the mental malady with which he was obviously afflicted. In some respects the disease wore the appearance of idiocy; then again there were gleams of the countenance that savoured of absolute madness. “You are of opinion, then, that Mary Monson knows who set fire to the house.” “Sartain, she does. I know, too, but I won’t tell. They might want to hang me, as well as Mary Monson, if I told. I know too much to do anything so foolish. Mary has said they would hang _me_, if I tell. I don’t want to be hanged, a bit.” A shudder from Sarah betrayed the effect of these words on the listeners; and Mrs. McBrain actually rose with the intention of sending for her daughter, who was then in the gaol, consoling the much-injured prisoner, as Anna Updyke firmly believed her to be, by her gentle but firm friendship. A word from the doctor, however, induced her to resume her seat, and to await the result with a greater degree of patience. “Mary Monson would seem to be a very prudent counsellor,” rejoined Dunscomb.