"When and where did you get this, Barney?"
"Yisterday, yer honor. She brought it to me herself. An' she wanted to bind me by great oaths out of a book that I wouldn't give it to you till afther to-day had gone by. Sez I, How can I give it to him till he comes here, an' his office man sez he won't be here for a week yet,--for I had been to find out on my own account,--God forgive me for deceivin' the innocent."
"It wasn't her letter, then, that made you telegraph, if you only got it yesterday. Was there anything else?"
His eyes fell, and he shifted his weight on his crutch uneasily.
"I saw her cryin' and I knew she was carryin' sorrow," he said at last, defiantly.
"When? Where? Tell me everything, can't you? Did you know anything of her plan to be married? Do you know where she is?"
"I know only what I see,--an' that was that she was unhappy. It was this way. She came by my stand many a time, asking this about you and that about you, an' when would you be back, an' I cud see that there was more on her heart than a gurrul like her should be carryin'. Then one night I saw her cryin',--"
"Where?"
"'Twas in her own home, sure. Her head was down on the windy-sill, an' it was dark, and she never mistrusted there was anybody about the place watchin',--an' no more there was, seein' I wouldn't count an old codger like meself anybody. She was sobbin' and talkin' aloud to herself,--" He broke off and looked at me with fierce reproach. "I telegraphed for ye then, sor."
"And I came at once. Then this letter,--she brought you this yesterday?"