"No?" There was something so pathetic about the way that single word was uttered, that Douglas' heart ached for the old man.
"When did she leave home?" he asked.
"Just after supper."
"Oh, she'll come back all right, never fear."
"Ah, but Jean's so changed," and Joe clutched Douglas by the arm. "She's not what she used to be. Before she went to the city I had no fear about her not coming home in proper time. But now it is different. There's something troubling the lass, and I believe her mind is affected. Oh, it is terrible!"
"Has she told you anything?"
"No, not a word. It's not like Jean. She used to tell us everything.
She was a child then; but now—Lord have mercy upon her!"
As Douglas stood there watching the heart-broken old man, a sudden idea flashed into his mind. Had he really seen Jean? Was it her face he had beheld at the hall door? Yes, he felt almost certain that it was she, the same woman he had rescued from the water of the harbour. But what should he do? Dare he tell Joe all about it, and how Ben Stubbles had tried to destroy her?
As he thought over these things, the shoemaker was standing looking out over the fields. Only by the light of the moon could Douglas see his face, and he noticed that it was very haggard. But he could not see the fire of anger which was kindling in his eyes. Only when the bent form straightened itself with a jerk, and a tense arm was thrust out, did he fully realise the greatness of his emotion.
"My Jean is not to blame," he cried. "She is as innocent as a child.
Some villain has injured her, and I must find him. And when I do——"