Then it occurred to her that she had not yet examined Mother Cockleshell as had been her original intention when she came to the camp.  Forthwith she passed back to the tent under the elm, to interview the deposed queen.  Here, she found Gentilla Stanley placing her goods in an untidy bundle on the back of a large gray donkey, which was her private property.  The old creature’s eyes were red with weeping and her gray hair had fallen down, so that she presented a somewhat wild appearance.  This, in connection with her employment, reminded Miss Greeby—­whose reading was wide—­of a similar scene in Borrow’s “Lavengro,” when Mrs. Pentulengro’s mother shifted herself.  And for the moment Mother Cockleshell had just the hairy looks of Mrs. Hern, and also at the moment, probably had the same amiable feelings.

Feeling that the old woman detested her successful rival, Miss Greeby approached, guessing that now was the right moment to work on her mind, and thus to learn what she could of Chaldea’s underhand doings.  She quite expected a snub, as Gentilla could scarcely be expected to answer questions when taken up with her own troubles.  But the artful creature, seeing by a side-glance that Miss Greeby was a wealthy Gentile lady, dropped one of her almshouse curtseys when she approached, and bundled up her hair.  A change passed over her withered face, and Miss Greeby found herself addressing not so much a fallen queen, as a respectable old woman who had known better days.

“And a blessing on your sweet face, my angel,” mumbled Mother Cockleshell.  “For a heart you have to feel for my sorrows.”

“Here is a sign of my feelings,” said Miss Greeby, handing over a sovereign, for she rightly judged that the gypsy would only appreciate this outward symbol of sympathy.  “Now, what do you know of Pine’s murder?”

Mother Cockleshell, who was busy tying up the sovereign in a corner of her respectable shawl, after biting it to make sure it was current gold, looked up with a vacant expression.  “Murder, my lady, and what should I know of that?”

Miss Greeby looked at her straightly.  “What does Chaldea know of it?”

A vicious pair of devils looked out of the decent widow’s eyes in a moment, and at once she became the Romany.  “Hai!  She knows, does she, the drab!  I hope to see her hanged.”

“For what?”

“For killing of Hearne, may his bones rest sweetly.”

Miss Greeby suppressed an exclamation.  “She accuses Lady Agnes of laying a trap by writing a letter, and says that Mr. Lambert fired the shot.”

“Avali!  Avali!” Mother Cockleshell nodded vigorously, but did not interrupt her preparations for departure.  “That she would say, since she loves the Gorgio, and hates the rani.  A rope round her neck to set the rye free to make Chaldea—­my curses on her—­his true wife.”

“She couldn’t have fired the shot herself, you know,” went on Miss Greeby in a musing manner.  “For then she would remove an obstacle to Mr. Lambert marrying Lady Agnes.”