“Ay, that be his name, sure enough,” answered Mat, with surprise. “Wheer did you happen upon him?”
“Never mind. I want to know what he’s doing about here.”
“He wants to get a sight o’ Mester Mitchell, he says.”
“But what did he sneak away like that for when he saw me come out, instead of waiting to ask if he could see him?”
“He doan’t want to be seen aboot here, he says.”
“Mat,” cried the girl, earnestly, after a few moments’ thought, “Mr. Mitchell has been knocked down and hurt. The doctor wants you to help carry him upstairs. I wonder if it was this tramp who did it.”
“Noa, Miss, but Ah knaw who did,” said a rough voice so close to her that it startled her.
She turned and saw the one-legged man whose conversation with Vernon Brander she had overheard in the churchyard. The ground was so soft with recent rains that his wooden leg had made no noise as he approached. Olivia drew her breath sharply through her teeth and felt cold with terror as she looked at his weather-worn, strangely inexpressive face. Here, she thought, was the man whose silence about that miserable night’s work of ten years ago Vernon had had so much difficulty in procuring. And he had come with the express purpose of seeing Ned Mitchell, whom she looked upon as Vernon’s avowed enemy.
“You know who knocked Mr. Mitchell down?” she said, faintly.
“Ay,” said Abel Squires, with a nod.