"Your wife is in possession of a secret which I mean to find out."
Vincent's face flushed an angry red.
"So others think she has a secret," he muttered to himself.
Aloud he said, "May I ask what yer name is, ma'am?"
"My name is Mrs. Everett. I am the mother of the man who was accused of murdering Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain six years ago."
"Ah," said Vincent, "it's a good way back since that 'appened; we've most forgot it now. I'm main sorry for yer, o' course, Mrs. Everett. T'were a black day for yer when your son——"
"My son is innocent, my good sir, and it is my belief that your wife can help me to prove it."
"No, you're on a wrong tack there," said Vincent slowly. "What can Hetty know?"
"Then you won't help me?"
"I say nought about that. The hour is late, and my wife ain't well. You'll excuse me now, but I must foller 'er."