Freda stopped. Her voice was breaking.
“Weel, Ah’m downright sorry if Ah have. Mebbe Ah have let aht a word that somebody’s picked oop, and—and—weel, Ah hope no harm’s coom of it.”
“There’s only this harm come of it,” answered the girl bitterly, “that you have perhaps put the police on the track of—of——”
“A dead mon. Weel, and where’s t’ harm of that?”
Freda was silent. She had forgotten her father’s pretended death.
“Mind ye, missie, there’s no good of being too sentimental, and, asking your pardon, t’ Capt’n’s reputation was none so good, setting aside that little business. So, as Ah said, there’s small harm done. And now mebbe you’ll tell me what’s taking you to Owdcastle Farm. There’s ne’er a pleace Ah wouldn’t sooner be droiving ye to.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s bad teales towd of it; an’ there’s bad characters that goes there.”
“Oh, Barnabas, I’m getting used to bad characters. I mean——”
She stopped. The farmer scratched his ear.