“Old Madam’s gone,” said Valentine seriously.

“Ay, her be—­her wer a saint, and sings in heaven now.”

“And I want to hear it.”

Thereupon the old woman roused herself a little, and with the voice and manner of one repeating a lesson, told Valentine word for word the trumpery tale in the book; how she had seen Mr. Melcombe early in the morning, as she went up to the house on washing-day, to help the servants.  For “Madam,” a widow already, had leave to live there till he should return.  He was walking in his shroud among the cherry-trees, and he looked seriously at her.  She passed, but turned instantly, and he had disappeared; he must have gone right through the crack of the door.

Valentine was vexed, and yet relieved.  Such a ridiculous tale could only be an invention; and yet, if she would have told it in different words, or have added anything, it might have led to some discovery—­it might, at least, have shown how it came to pass that such a story had obtained credit.

“That was it, was it?” he said, feigning content.  “I should like to ask you another question; perhaps your daughter will not mind going down.”

With evident reluctance the daughter withdrew.  Valentine shut the door, and came back to his place.

Naturally enough, he cared nothing about the story; so he approached the only thing he did care about in the matter.  “I want to ask you this one thing:  a ghost, you say, appeared to you—­well, what do you think it was for—­what did it want—­what did it mean?”

Evident surprise on the part of his listener.

“It must have come for something,” Valentine added, when she remained silent.  “Have you never considered what?”

“Ay, sir, sure-ly.  He came to let folks know he was gone.”

“And that was all, you think?”

“What else could he come for?” she answered.

“Nobody has ever said, then, that it came for anything else,” thought Valentine.  “The poor ghost is not accused of any crime, and there is no crime known of concerning the family or place that could be imputed to him.”

“You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?”

“Ne’er a word, sir, this blessed marnin’, but thank you kindly.”

Perhaps Valentine had never felt better pleased in his life than he did when he went down the narrow, dark stairs, after his interview with Becky Maddison.  To find that without doubt she was either a fool or an impostor, was not what should have softened his heart and opened his purse for her; but he had feared to encounter her story far more than he had known himself till now that all fear was over.  So when he got down to the daughter he was gracious, and generously gave her leave to come to the house for wine and any other comforts that the old woman might require.  “And I shall come and see her from time to time,” he added, as he went his way, for with the old woman’s last word had snapped the chain that had barred the road to Melcombe.  It was his.  He should dispense its charity, pay its dues, and from henceforth, without fear or superstition, enjoy its revenues.