The speaker was the keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers, who had come forward to talk to Percivale on that miserable evening when we were out searching for little Ethel. He sat near where we stood by the door, between two respectable looking women, who had been listening to the chapter as devoutly as if it had been of the true gospel.
"Sure, grannie, that ain't out o' the Bible?" said another voice, from somewhere farther off.
"We'll talk about that presently," answered Marion.
"I want to hear what Mr. Jarvis has to say to it: he's a carpenter himself, you see,—a joiner, that is, you know."
All the faces in the room were now turned towards Jarvis.
"Tell me why you don't think much of it, Mr. Jarvis," said Marion.
"'Tain't a bit likely," he answered.
"What isn't likely?"
"Why, not one single thing in the whole kit of it. And first and foremost, 'tain't a bit likely the old man 'ud ha' been sich a duffer."
"Why not? There must have been stupid people then as well as now."