"I didn't hit 'en," babbled Willie. "He stumbled and fell and hit his head—they'll make me swing for this—what shall us do, what shall us do?"
"Wait—I must think," commended the woman. She pressed her hands to her forehead, and sat very still.
"Have 'ee thought?" whispered Willie anxiously.
"Yes—I've thought. Willie, you'm rare and like—he—and that'll save us."
"What do 'ee mean?" asked Willie, thinking the shock had turned her brain.
"The mask!" replied Vashti, "the mask!"
Then, kneeling by the still body, they talked in whispers—she unfolding her plan—he recoiling from it, weakly protesting, and then giving way.
They were to take the dead man between them to the disused mine shaft and throw him down, then Willie was to wear the black mask, and take Glasson's place, until they could sail for America together. Like all simple plans, it had a touch of genius. Willie's constant talk of emigrating, his oft-heard boasts of slipping away in the night and not coming back till he had made a fortune, would all help to cover up his disappearance. And who was to connect it with Vashti and her silent, eccentric, black-masked husband—who would speak to him or her on the subject? And if they did—she could always invent a plausible answer, while he was safeguarded by the fact that the strongest point of likeness between the two men was their voices. The most dissimilar thing about them had been their faces.
"I won't wear his mask," said Willie shuddering; "I couldn't put 'en against me. You must make me another."
"I'll make 'en now," said Vashti. She rose to her feet, and setting the candle on the seat of a chair, looked about her.