The old woman kept her sharp eyes on his expressive face and hugged his hand every now and then, as various points in the narrative struck her.  At the end she dropped his hand and returned back to her chair chuckling.  “It’s a sad dukkerin for the foxy lady,” said Gentilla, grinning like the witch she was.  “Hanged she will be, and rightful it is to be so!”

“I agree with you,” replied Lambert relentlessly.  “Your evidence and that of Silver can hang her, certainly.  Yet, if she is arrested, and the whole tale comes out in the newspapers, think of the disgrace to my family.”

Mother Cockleshell nodded.  “That’s as true as true, my golden rye,” she said pondering.  “And I wish not to hurt you and the rani, who was kind to me.  I go away,” she rose to her feet briskly, “and I think.  What will you do?”

“I can’t say,” said Lambert, doubtfully and irresolutely.  “I must consult my wife.  Miss Greeby should certainly suffer for her crime, and yet—­”

“Aye!  Aye!  Aye!  The boro rye,” she meant Garvington, “is a bad one for sure, as we know.  Shame to him is shame to you, and I wouldn’t have the rani miserable—­the good kind one that she is.  Wait! aye, wait, my precious gentleman, and we shall see.”

“You will say nothing in the meantime,” said Lambert, stopping her at the door, and anxious to know exactly what were her intentions.

“I have waited long for vengeance and I can wait longer, sir,” said Mother Cockleshell, becoming less the gypsy and more the respectable almshouse widow.  “Depend upon my keeping quiet until—­”

“Until what?  Until when?”

“Never you mind,” said the woman mysteriously.  “Them as sins must suffer for the sin.  But not you and her as is innocent.”

“No violence, Gentilla,” said the young man, alarmed less the lawless gypsy nature should punish Miss Greeby privately.

“I swear there shall be no violence, rye.  Wait, for the child is making mischief, and until we knows of her doings we must be silent.  Give me your gripper, my dearie,” she seized his wrist and bent back the palm of the hand to trace the lines with a dirty finger.  “Good fortune comes to you and to her, my golden rye,” she droned in true gypsy fashion.  “Money, and peace, and honor, and many children, to carry on a stainless name.  Your son shall you see, and your son’s son, my noble gentleman, and with your romi shall you go with happiness to the grave,” she dropped the hand.  “So be it for a true dukkerin, and remember Gentilla Stanley when the luck comes true.”

“But Mother, Mother,” said Lambert, following her to the door, as he was still doubtful as to her intentions concerning Miss Greeby.

The gypsy waved him aside solemnly.  “Never again will you see me, my golden rye, if the stars speak truly, and if there be virtue in the lines of the hand.  I came into your life:  I go out of your life:  and what is written shall be!” she made a mystic sign close to his face and then nodded cheerily.