“Roy’s not in, sir,” she said, dropping a curtsey, in answer to Lionel’s inquiry.  “May be, he’ll not be long.  It’s his time for coming home, but there’s no dependence on him.”

Lionel glanced round.  He saw that the woman was alone, and he deemed it a good opportunity to ask her about what had been mentioned to him, two or three hours previously, by the Vicar of Deerham.  Closing the door, and advancing towards her, he began.

“I want to say a word to you, Mrs. Roy.  What were your grounds for stating to Mr. Bourne that Mr. Frederick Massingbird was with Rachel Frost at the Willow Pool the evening of her death?”

Mrs. Roy gave a low shriek of terror, and flung her apron over her face.  Lionel ungallantly drew it down again.  Her countenance was turning livid as death.

“You will have the goodness to answer me, Mrs. Roy.”

“It were just a dream sir,” she said, the words issuing in unequal jerks from her trembling lips, “I have been pretty nigh crazed lately.  What with them Mormons, and the uncertainty of fixing what to do—­whether to believe ’em or not—­and Roy’s crabbed temper, which grows upon him, and other fears and troubles, I’ve been a-nigh crazed.  It were just a dream as I had, and nothing more; and I be vexed to my heart that I should have made such a fool of myself, as to go and say what I did to Mr. Bourne.”

One word above all others, caught the attention of Lionel in the answer.  It was “fears.”  He bent towards her, lowering his voice.

“What are these fears that seem to pursue you?  You appear to me to have been perpetually under the influence of fear since that night.  Terrified you were then; terrified you remain.  What is the cause?”

The woman trembled excessively.

“Roy keeps me in fear, sir.  He’s for ever a-threatening.  He’ll shake me, or he’ll pinch me, or he’ll do for me, he says.  I’m in fear of him always.”

“That is an evasive answer,” remarked Lionel.  “Why should you fear to confide in me?  You have never known me to take an advantage to anybody’s injury.  The past is past.  That unfortunate night’s work appears now to belong wholly to the past.  Nevertheless, if you can throw any light upon it, it is your duty to do so.  I will keep the secret.”

“I didn’t know a thing, sir, about the night’s work.  I didn’t,” she sobbed.

“Hush!” said Lionel.  “I felt sure at the time that you did know something, had you chosen to speak.  I feel more sure of it now.”

“No, I don’t, sir; not if you pulled me in pieces for it.  I had a horrid dream, and I went straight off, like a fool, to Mr. Bourne and told it, and—­and—­that was all, sir.”

She was flinging her apron up again to hide her countenance, when, with a faint cry, she let it fall, sprung from her seat, and stood before Lionel.

“For the love of heaven, sir, say nothing to him!” she uttered, and disappeared within an inner door.  The sight of Roy, entering, explained the enigma; she must have seen him from the window.  Roy took off his cap by way of salute.