"Aye, mistress," said he portentously, "ye're fighting for yer young like the milky mither o' the herd, wha horns the rash intruder wha wud convart her caulf into veal. The muckle great deil tak ye for a leear."
"Gowrie," cried Herries, who was on his feet, "you knew all along!"
"Nae, nae, ye'll nae mack me compromise maesel in yon way. I hed ma suspeecions, though no o' her."
"Say plainly," Herries rapped the table, "is Mrs. Narby guilty or----?"
"I'm nae varra sure."
"Captain Kyles?" he appealed to the skipper, who stood by Mrs. Narby, with folded arms and a grim smile.
"I accuse the son."
"It's a bloomin' lie," panted the landlady, who looked a gruesome object, with her grey hair disarranged and her bonnet askew. "It wos me who cut th' ole man's 'orrid throat. Pope wouldn't 'urt a fly. I did h'it fur the tin, so es t' 'elp Pope t' be a great man."
"You don't seem to be surprised, Señora Guzman," said Herries, looking at the composed face of the Mexican lady.
"Captain Kyles told me long ago that Pope Narby was guilty."