"I simply remarked that I disliked the touch of half-witted persons, whereupon he declared that he had wit enough to be offended. Then I told him he should thank heaven for the small favor and pray God to help him use it."
After cautioning her to secrecy, I told her of the ugly whispers that were abroad connecting young Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley with the murder of old Roger.
"No, no!" she cried, greatly agitated. "I saw the two men who did it. I saw them in the light of Noah's lanthorn. Neither of them was young Wentworth."
I at once grew interested and asked her to describe the men she saw.
"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, almost hysterically. I thought she was going to weep, so I said in haste:—
"Don't weep, Frances! You must forget."
She looked quickly up to me and answered: "I am not weeping. There is not a tear in me. I have wept until I am dry."
"But your grief is unreasonable," I returned. "Roger was your friend, I know, but his death does not call for so great sorrowing."
"No, no, it is not that, Baron Ned. You don't know. I can't tell you.
Please do not speak of this terrible affair again."
I supposed it was her horror of the tragedy that had wrought upon her nerves, usually so strong, so I dropped the subject, and it was not brought up again until after many weeks, when circumstances made it necessary for me to break silence.