"He's ill, master," she whimpered, clawing Durgo's rough tweed sleeve, "and if he goes there's no one to help me. Give him something to make him well; set him on his legs again."
"Do you think I can do so?" asked Durgo, with a grave smile.
Mrs. Tunks peered at him with her bleared eyes and struck her skinny hands together. "I can swear to it, master. You know much I don't know, and I know heaps as the Gorgios—my curse on them!—would give their ears to learn. Come, lovey—I mean master—help me in this and I'll help you in other ways."
"Such as by telling us who murdered Huxham," put in Cyril injudiciously.
"Me, deary! Lor', I don't know who killed the poor gentleman," and Mrs. Tunk's face became perfectly vacant of all expression.
Durgo turned frowning on the white man. "I said that I would let you come if you did not speak," he remarked in a firm whisper; "you have broken your promise already."
Cyril apologised in low tones. "I won't say another word," he said, and took a seat on a broken chair near the window.
Mrs. Tunks cringed and bent before Durgo, evidently regarding him with awe, as might her sister-witches the Evil One, when he appeared at festivals. The negro glanced towards the closed door of the other room. "Who is watching your grandson?" he asked sharply.
"A Romany gal, as I found——"
"That will do. I want no listeners. Call her out and turn her out."