"That depends upon your information."
"Then I shan't tell ye," cried Mrs. Grix, backing towards the door. "You can look for what she wrote. I shan't 'elp you. Keep me fro' the work-'ouse, and maybe I'll tell ye summat to make you wink; but not now, not now. Old Jane Grix ain't no fool, lovey. No, no!"
Gebb made a step forward to detain her, but Mrs. Grix hobbled through the door and vanished in the darkness as mysteriously as any of the ghosts she had been talking about. At all events, when the detective slipped out of the Yellow Room and into the twilight of the passage, his eyes were somewhat dazzled by the sunlight and glare of colour within, and he saw nothing for the moment, Mrs. Grix was quicker on her old feet than he supposed, and in some way hobbled out of sight into one of the numerous passages, so that when Gebb's eyes became accustomed to the gloom he did not know into which one she had gone. Also he heard rapidly retreating footsteps--not the heavy hobble of the old woman, but rather the light, dancing step of Martin. And as to confirm this impression he heard the hoarse voice of the gardener singing one of his wild songs:--
"Light shall come, but not from above,
Joy shall come, but not from love,
The glow of hell, the lust of hate,
Impatiently for these I wait."
"Ha!" said Gebb to himself, as he hurried down the passage. "Martin has been listening. I wonder why? I don't believe he is mad, after all, for neither that old woman nor Miss Wedderburn is afraid of him. He must be feigning madness for some reason. Ha!" cried the detective with a sudden start, "can Martin be the murderer of----"
Before he could finish the sentence he heard a series of piercing shrieks from Mrs. Grix, and a hoarse growling from Martin. These noises sounded far in the distance, and Gebb ran down the passage, through the sitting-room into which he had been shown by Miss Wedderburn on the occasion of his first visit, and on to the terrace. Here he saw Mrs. Grix running from Martin, who was rushing after her with a furious face. Gebb stared, not at the terrified old woman, who was hurrying towards him with wonderful activity for one of her years, but at Martin's face. It wore a savage scowl, and there between the eyes was the deep mark spoken of by Parge.
"Dean!" cried Gebb, thunderstruck. "You are Dean!"
"Yes! yes!" screeched Mrs. Grix, getting behind Gebb, "he's Dean sure enough. He was going to kill me 'cause I wanted to tell ye."
Martin--or rather Dean--stopped when he heard his name, then turned, and leaping over the terrace ran like a hare down the avenue.