She put down her mat, rose, and walked beside him.
'Let me tell your fortune, pretty gentleman,' she began, with the same professional sing-song in which she had addressed James Penwyn a few days before. It was the same woman who stopped the late Squire of Penwyn lower down the river bank.
'I don't want my fortune told, thank you. I know what it is pretty well,' replied Churchill, in his calm, cold voice.
'Don't say that, pretty gentleman. No one can look into the urn of fate.'
'And yet you and your tribe pretend to do it,' said Churchill.
'We study the stars more than others do, and learn to read 'em, my noble gentleman. I've read something in the stars about you since the night your cousin was murdered.'
'And pray what do the stars say of me?' inquired Churchill, with a scornful laugh.
'They say that you're a kind-hearted gentleman at bottom, and will befriend a poor gipsy.'
'I'm afraid they're out in their reckoning, for once in a way. Perhaps it was Mercury you got the information from. He's a notorious trickster. And now, pray, my good woman,' turning to see that they were beyond ken of the rest, 'what did you mean by sending me a letter to say you could tell me something about my cousin's death? If you really have any information to give, your wisest course is to carry it directly to the police; and if your information should lead to the discovery of the murderer, you may earn a reward that will provide for you for the rest of your life.'