"I do believe you."
"That's well, then, and what I came back hoping to hear. But now, master, I'll tell ye what I saw myself that same night. I was coming up toward this way, and you overtook me, riding fast. May be you noticed me, for I touched my hat."
"I remember it," said Mr. Chandos.
"You rode in at the gates at a hand gallop; I could hear the horse's hoofs in the silence of the evening. I met one of our fellows, and stopped to speak to him, which hindered me three—or four minutes; and—you know them trees to the left of the gate, master, with posts afore 'em?"
"Well?" said Mr. Chandos.
"There stood a woman there when I got up. She was taking off a grey cloak, and she folded it small and put it on her arm and walked away. Folks put on clothes at night, instead of taking 'em off, was in my thoughts, and I looked after her."
"Did you know her?"
"I never saw her afore. She was one in your condition of life, master, for her clothes were brave, and the rings glittered on her fingers. Next morning when we heard what had happened, we said she was the one. I have not seen her since. She seemed to be making for the railroad."
"Why did you not come and tell me this at the time?"
"Nay, master, was it any business of mine? How did I know I should be welcome? or that our people was suspected? That's all, sir."