"She may have loved the murderer."
"The man who is suffering penal servitude?" cried Vincent. "Your son, ma'am? Then ef you think so he'd better stay where he is—he'd best stay where 'e is."
"I am not talking of my son, but of the real murderer," said Mrs. Everett slowly.
Vincent stared at her. He thought she was slightly off her head.
"I was in court when your son was tried," he said, at last. "'Twas a plain case. He killed his man—it was brought in manslaughter, worn't it? And he didn't swing for it. I don't know what you mean, ma'am, an' I'd like to be away now at my work."
"I have something more to say, and then I'll go. I met your wife about a year ago. We met on Salisbury Plain."
"Ay, she's fond o' the Plain, Hetty is."
"I told her then what I now tell you. She fell on her knees in terror—she clasped my dress, and asked me how I had found out. Then she recovered herself, tried to eat her own words, and left me. Since then she has avoided me. It was the sight of me last night that made your wife turn faint. I repeat that she carries a secret. If that secret were known it might clear my son. I want to find it out. If you will help me and if we succeed, I'll give you a thousand pounds."
"'Taint to be done, ma'am," said Vincent. "Het is nervous, and a bit given to the hysterics, but she knows no more 'bout that murder than all the rest of the world knows; and what's more, I wouldn't take no money to probe at my wife's heart. Good-mornin', ma'am, I must be attending to my turnips."
Vincent vaulted the five-barred gate as he spoke, and walked across the field.