he proceeded, with his eyes directed slyly on the way back to the station, “I begin to think I’m not worthy of the fresh air, either.  A kind of longing seems to come over me for the London stink.  I’m home-sick already for the soot of my happy childhood and my own dear native mud.  The air here is too thin for me, and the sky’s too clean; and—­oh, Lord!—­when you’re wed to the roar of the traffic—­the ’busses and the cabs and what not—­the silence in these parts is downright awful.  I’ll wish you good evening, miss; and get back to London.”

Isabel turned to Moody with disappointment plainly expressed in her face and manner.

“Is that all he has to say?” she asked.  “You told me he could help us.  You led me to suppose he could find the guilty person.”

Sharon heard her.  “I could name the guilty person,” he answered, “as easily, miss, as I could name you.”

“Why don’t you do it then?” Isabel inquired, not very patiently

“Because the time’s not ripe for it yet, miss—­that’s one reason.  Because, if I mentioned the thief’s name, as things are now, you, Miss Isabel, would think me mad; and you would tell Mr. Moody I had cheated him out of his money—­that’s another reason.  The matter’s in train, if you will only wait a little longer.”

“So you say,” Isabel rejoined.  “If you really could name the thief, I believe you would do it now.”

She turned away with a frown on her pretty face.  Old Sharon followed her.  Even his coarse sensibilities appeared to feel the irresistible ascendancy of beauty and youth.

“I say!” he began, “we must part friends, you know—­or I shall break my heart over it.  They have got milk at the farmhouse.  Do you think they have got pen, ink, and paper too?”

Isabel answered, without turning to look at him, “Of course they have!”

“And a bit of sealing-wax?”

“I daresay!”

Old Sharon laid his dirty claws on her shoulder and forced her to face him as the best means of shaking them off.

“Come along!” he said.  “I am going to pacify you with some information in writing.”

“Why should you write it?” Isabel asked suspiciously.

“Because I mean to make my own conditions, my dear, before I let you into the secret.”

In ten minutes more they were all three in the farmhouse parlor.  Nobody but the farmer’s wife was at home.  The good woman trembled from head to foot at the sight of Old Sharon.  In all her harmless life she had never yet seen humanity under the aspect in which it was now presented to her.  “Mercy preserve us, Miss!” she whispered to Isabel, “how come you to be in such company as that?” Instructed by Isabel, she produced the necessary materials for writing and sealing—­and, that done, she shrank away to the door.  “Please to excuse me, miss,” she said with a last horrified look at her venerable visitor; “I really can’t stand the sight of such a blot of dirt as that in my nice clean parlor.”  With those words she disappeared, and was seen no more.