"Job!" cried the gipsy, smiting his thigh, "it comes to me now. She was like the gentle Romany in looks. So it's her, rye, is it? And why did he kill her?"
"Who?"
"The man as did it. She deceived him, I don't doubt; and he strangled her."
"You are wrong, Pharaoh; it was no love tragedy. How Bithiah came by her death no one knows. But I beg of you not to let this terrible crime form a precedent in your dealing with Zara. Where is she now?"
"I don't know," said Lee, becoming sullen again. "I was up North, and asked her to marry me over the poker and tongs, as we'd been vowed for months to one another. Then she told me of her marriage in the Gentile way with a Gorgio. I tried to get his name out of her; but she knew how ready my knife would be, and refused to tell me. In the night she ran away, and, as I guessed she'd come back here to her husband, I moved my people down as quick as I could. Here I am, but where Zara is I don't know. Curses on her and him."
"Hush! Do not swear, Lee. Who is this man?"
"I don't know."
"Have you any idea as to who he is?"
"Yes; it's either a man called Slade, or another, Mayne by name. They were always hanging round our camp when we were here last, and Zara was with them oftener than I liked. I believe it's one or the other."
"No, Pharaoh, you must be wrong. Slade, the policeman, has been married for quite a year; and although Mr. Mayne is still a bachelor, it is probable that he will make Miss Carwell his wife. So you see it can be neither of these."