“Listen to him,” said Rebecca, with a cackle of glee. “Listen to vagabones Jonah. He’s purring as loud as an eight-day clock, Lord bless him.”
Their eerie hour of dread was broken. Causleen glanced at the Master, and for the first time since they shared Logie’s roof they laughed together. Then she grew wide-eyed and grave again.
“But your hands are raw!” she cried.
“Storm did not know me just at first. They’ll heal,” said Hardcastle.
CHAPTER XIII
WILL O’ WISP
I
Near dusk of the quiet November day a man came into Widow Mathison’s inn at Garsykes and called for a quart of home-brewed.
“Can you pay?” asked the widow, with her buxom, loose-lipped smile.
For answer the man took a handful of silver from his pocket and laid it on the table.