Soon afterwards, as they turned their horses' heads toward Prince Town, Peter observed a strange, tall figure proceeding on foot in the same direction. It was as though one of the moorland crosses from the Abbot's Way had come to life and stole over the wilderness upon some superhuman errand.
"Look!" cried Norcot, "a walking scarecrow!"
Grace recognised the being, and laughed.
"A 'scarecrow,' you say. That's the richest woman on Dartmoor!"
"A woman—and a wealthy one? Impossible!"
"'Tis Lovey Lee, an old servant of my grandfather's. By chance she lives here within a few miles of Fox Tor Farm. We shall pass her hovel presently."
"Was it not she whom your father accused of stealing the amphora when Sir Nicholas died?"
"Yes; and he still vows that she has it, for all her oaths to the contrary. She's a weird old woman. Her grandson, John, tells me that she lives upon frogs and herb tea."
They were now abreast of the dame, and Peter inspected her carefully.
"Tut, tut! She does not throw away money upon her apparel," he said.