“I have,” rejoined Peggy, restraining an impulse to say “I ’ave.” “It’s not much. If there was a blacksmith shop round here I could get it fixed in a jiffy. It’s just this rod that’s snapped.”
“Why, miss,” puffed Morgan, “Gid Gibbon’s place isn’t more than a few paces, as you might say, from ’ere. Why don’t you take that rod there? Hi’ll h'escort yer.”
“Why, that’s so,” agreed Peggy, “how stupid of me not to have thought of it. Gid can fix it in a few minutes.”
Selecting a small wrench from the tool box Peggy deftly unbolted the broken rod, and then, with Morgan and his companion as guides, she set off across the fields for Gid’s shop, which she now recalled was a short distance up the road, but hidden from the spot where the Butterfly had dropped by a patch of woods.
“By the way, Morgan,” the girl asked, suddenly, “has anything more been heard of the missing jewels?”
To Peggy’s astonishment the man started and stammered.
“Yes, miss—that is—no, miss. I means, miss, that there ain’t been no news, miss, hof hany kind, miss.”
Peggy nodded without appearing to note the man’s confusion.
“It’s a queer affair, miss,” put in Morgan’s companion, whose name was Giles.
“It is, indeed,” rejoined Peggy. “I do wish it could all be cleared up.”