Presently entered the old couple, the woman first, her husband after her. The old man made his bow, the old woman her curtseys to the two gentlemen, one after the other, and a third to the clerk. They were placed in the centre of the room, in front of the table at which the gentlemen sat. They were as exactly like their description in Dr. Leroy’s dream as if they had this moment stepped out of it. The old man in his shabby, ragged, old blue surtout; his waistcoat tied with more strings than fastened with buttons, his ragged trousers, and his pale, thin, feeble-looking face; short, thin, white beard, and grey hair combed—if it ever were combed—but, at all events, worn smooth, and hanging downwards from his nearly bald crown. Altogether, he was a picture of poverty, age, and feeble-mindedness. As for the old woman, she looked at least seventy. Short, rather stooping forward, and resting on her stick, which instead of a hook, had a straight crutch. Her old battered black bonnet, and dingy faded old red cloak, were just as described in the dream. Her face, however, was very different from that of her husband. It was brown and wrinkled, but was full of shrewdness. Her nose was clear and straight, and you saw that in her youth she must have had good features. Her eyes were grey and large, and looked out full of meaning, and keen observation. “You are John and Jane Shalcross?” said the clerk. “Yes, sir,” said the old woman. “Let your husband speak, good woman,” said Gethin Thorne. “Your service, sir,” said the old woman, with a deep curtsey. “What has brought you here, Shalcross?” said Mr. Degge. “It’s about this business, sir, of Joe Scammel.” “What about it?” “We hearn he’s dead, and we wanten to tell your worship what we know’d.” “What’s that?” “About the murder, sir,” said Shalcross. “Well, did you know anything about the murder?” “Yes, your worship, we seed it.” “What! you saw it? You are rather late with your information, then, I must say. Don’t you know that your concealing it thus all this time makes you accessories?” “Makes what?” said Shalcross, looking at his wife, as if she could help him. “Makes you guilty, too, Shalcross.” “God forbid, sir! but what could we do? Scammel swore to murder us if we said a syllable to any living soul; and he took us off wi’ him.” “But,” said Mr. Degge, “you should have seized the very first opportunity to get away, and inform the magistrates of the murder.” “Ay, sir,” said the woman, “that’s what ween done.” “Let your husband speak first, Jenny,” said Gethin Thorne, the clerk, “you’re always so ready with your tongue.” “Oh, let her speak, sir,” said the husband. “She can tell you about it better than I can. It is she as awlis does the talking for us; my poor head, ’specially since the murder, is just no where at all.”