"Ah!" said Dempsey again in a non-committal voice, looking hard this time into the fire.
"Where have you seen her—in these parts?" asked Mrs. Halsey.
"At the Harvest Festival, t'other day. But I must have been mistaken—that's all. I think I'm going to call upon her some day."
"Whatever for?"
"Why—to tell her about my grandfather!" said Dempsey, looking round at Mrs. Halsey, with an air of astonishment that any one should ask him the question.
"You won't be welcome."
"Why not?"
"Because she don't want to hear nothin' about Watson's murder. And whatever's the good on it, anyhow?" said Mrs. Halsey with sudden emphasis. "You've told us a good tale, I'll grant ye. But yer might as well be pullin' the old feller 'isself out of his grave, as goin' round killin' 'im every night fresh, as you be doin'. Let 'im be. Skelintons is skelintons."
Dempsey, feeling rather indignantly that his pains had been wasted, and his audience was not worthy of him, rose to take his departure. Halsey's face cleared. He turned to look at his wife, and she winked in return. And when the young forester had taken his departure, Mrs. Halsey stroked the red flannel round her swollen neck complacently.
"I 'ad to pike 'im out soomhow. It's 'igh time she wor put to bed!"