"But, if so, why did he not raise the alarm on the moment?"
"Afraid to inculpate himself, no doubt," replied Lucas. "But here we are."
Mother Jimboy's tent stood on the verge of the common, all by itself. She was with none of her kinsfolk, and camped alone in quite a hermit fashion. Since her illness a long lean girl with sharp black eyes had come forward in some mysterious fashion to take charge of her, and it was this damsel who appeared round a corner of the tent when the young men approached. Evidently the girl knew Lovel, for she nodded to him in a familiar fashion and addressed him directly.
"Gran's better, rye," said she, "and wants to see you. I was just going for you."
"I wonder what she wants to see me about," speculated Lovel, as the girl lifted up the flap of the tent. "We'll soon learn. Come, Mexton!" and they crept into the dwelling of the old gipsy.
Gran was lying on the ground amid a pile of dingy blankets, over which was thrown a gaily striped quilt. Her face was leaner and more wrinkled than ever, and her eyes were sunken. Still, they glittered with intelligence, and she seemed to have all her faculties about her, as she bent forward and clutched the hand of her grandson.
"Eh, dearie, I be main glad to see 'ee, for sure. An' t'other rye--who be he?"
"I am Paul Mexton," said that gentleman, "and I have come with Mr. Lovel to hear what you have to say about the murder."
Gran began a cackling laugh, and choked in the middle of it. "Oh, 'tis gran as knows the pure truth o' that," she said, when her breath came back. "I wanted to tell mun to you, dearie, so that you may be cliver and save yourself."
"To me?" cried Lucas, bending forward. "Do you know who killed Milly?"