"Of what?"
"I don't know: he refuses to tell me, sir."
Dane knew very well when she said this that Patricia's suggestion was a true one. Pentreddle had evidently stolen the jewel and now feared lest he should be assassinated. But with the recovery of the jewel by one of the priests--and he believed that there was more than one on the hunt--all danger had passed. "Isa," he said, impressively, "go back and add a postscript to your letter, telling Harry that there is now no danger, and that the Squire, my uncle, wishes to see him."
"What about, sir?" asked Isa suddenly, and with an anxious look.
"He wants to talk to him about Mrs. Pentreddle's death. She was our housekeeper, you know."
"Yes, sir, and a grand funeral the Squire gave her," said the woman, with a flush, for, like all the lower orders, she attached great weight to postmortem ceremonies. "He has been kind."
"Well, he wants to be kinder," said Theodore, not hesitating to tell a lie in order to gain his ends. "He has some idea of who killed Martha, and wishes to talk about it to Harry, who should avenge his mother's death. Will you go back and add that to your letter?"
"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!" said the girl eagerly; "and very glad Harry will be to hear it, as he has been fretting dreadfully over his mother's death. But he did not return because of this danger, whatever it is. Do you know, sir?"
"I can guess," answered Theodore significantly, "so you can tell Harry that he can come quite safely to England. Now go and write your letter, and say that he is to come back at once. The Squire wishes to see him at Beckleigh, as he has news for him. Meanwhile, I shall speak with your grandmother."
Isa nodded, and stepped aside to allow her grand visitor to enter the house, although it was scarcely worthy of the name. It was rather a hovel, and possessed only three rooms--a large one, used for all living purposes, and two tiny bedrooms. The old hag--she was nothing else--sat beside a small fire, smoking a short-stemmed clay pipe, and only vouchsafed Dane a grunt when he greeted her. She was about eighty-six years of age, but looked even older with her wrinkled, copper-coloured face and scanty white hair streaming from under a thrum cap. Her eyes were small, black and piercing, and full of vivid life. For the rest, she was hunched up in a basket-chair, stroking a large black cat, and looked a typical witch of James's time. Perhaps she dressed for the part and lived up to it, black cat and all, for she made much money in summer by telling fortunes to tourists. But undoubtedly her appearance was so old and wicked, that she would have tasted of the tar-barrel in Stuart days, almost without the formality of a trial. Granny Lee was a witch in grain, if ever there was a witch.