The old woman entered the other room, and soon returned driving before her a black-eyed slip of a child about thirteen years of age. This brat protested that Tunks was restless and could not be left.
"I shall quieten him," said the negro quickly; "get out, you!" and he fixed so fierce a glance on the small girl that she fled rapidly. And Cyril saw that the girl was not one easily frightened.
"Now to put your grandson to sleep," said Durgo, passing into the next room, and Cyril saw his great hands hover over the restless man on the bed. He made strange passes and spoke strange words, while Mrs. Tunks looked on, shaking and trembling. In two minutes the sick man lay perfectly still, and to all appearances was sound asleep. Durgo returned to the outer room.
"You'll cure him, master, won't you?" coaxed Mrs. Tunks.
"Yes. I'll cure him if you tell me what you know of this murder."
"I don't know anything, master."
Mrs. Tunks looked obstinate yet terrified. Durgo stared at her in a mesmeric sort of way, and threw out his hand. The woman crouched and writhed in evident agony. "Oh, deary me, I'm all burnt up and aching, and shrivelled cruel. Don't—oh, don't! I'll be good. I'll be good;" and she wriggled.
"Will you speak?" said the negro sternly.
"Yes, yes! only take the spell off me, deary—master, I mean."
"You feel no pain now," said Durgo quickly, and at once an air of relief passed over Mrs. Tunks' withered face. She sat down on a stool and folded her claw-like hands on her lap. Durgo leaned against the fire-place. "What do you know of this murder?" he asked.