"What reason did your father give for his belief?"
"It's a strange story, sir, but I know bits of it are true, so mebbe the rest isn't so far out. D'you see yon farm?" and Begonia Smith pointed to the Burt homestead.
"Yes," said Armathwaite. "I met Mr. Burt yesterday."
"It's built on the ruins o' Holand Castle, sir. It's barely ten years ago since Mr. Burt used the last o' t' stones for his new barn. These Holands were descended from a lady who married Edward, the Black Prince. She had three sons by her first husband, an' one of 'em kem to this part o' Yorksheer. As was the way in them days, he set a church alongside his castle, and was that proud of his step-father, who would ha' bin King of England had he lived, that he had that painted glass window med in his memory. In later times, when there was a cry about images, the owner of Holand Castle had the window taken out an' hidden. Then, to please somebody or another, he set fire to t' church. After that, things went badly with him, an' the castle was deserted, because it had the plague, though I'm thinking the only plague was bad drainage. Anyhow, nigh on two hundred year ago, a man named Faulkner settled i' this quiet spot—you can guess what it was like, sir, when there was no railways, an' the nearest main road ran through Leyburn on t' other side o' t' moor. This Faulkner had gathered his brass in no good way, robbin' ships an' killin' folk on the high seas, it was said. He used to import hogsheads o' wine all the way from Whitby, an' rare good wood was in 'em, because I saw the last of 'em used as a rain barrel, an' I'm not seventy yet. The story goes that one night, in his cups, he was annoyed by the way the Black Prince looked at him, hard an' condemning like a judge. He got a pair o' big pistols, an' fired one at the Prince's face. He shot the eyes out, an' then aimed the second one at the mouth, but that burst, and blew his own right hand off, an' he bled to death afore they could plug the veins. His son, who was a chip o' t' owd block, hired a drunken artist to paint another face. This man knew nowt about stained glass, but he was a rare hand at drawin' terrible things, so he planned yon devil's phiz on oiled paper, an' stuck it between two thin plates o' glass, an' it was leaded in. If you was to climb on a ladder you'd find the difference at once between that part o' t' window an' all t' remainder. Many's the time I've seen it when nailin' up the wistaria, an', if I'd dared, would have put the hammer-head through it. But Mr. Garth refused to have it touched. He called it an antiquarian curiosity. All the same, he wouldn't have Miss Meg told about it, because it might have frightened her but he was always careful to see that the blind was not drawn across the front door on June evenings. Mebbe, you'll have heerd of a ghost, sir?"
A window was raised, and both men looked up. Marguérite was leaning out, her face aglow with pleasure.
"Why, if it isn't my own dear Smith!" she cried. "What lucky wind brought you here? Mr. Armathwaite, is this your doing? Smith, I'll be down in a jiffy. Mind you don't skedaddle before I come!"
Thus it befell that when Betty Jackson brought an early breakfast to Percy Whittaker, and she was asked where Miss Meg was, she answered:
"Out in the garden with Mr. Armathwaite. They're talkin' to Begonia Smith."
"Ah, I heard the voices. And who, pray, is Begonia Smith?" demanded Percy.
"The old gardener," said Betty. "He was here years an' years."