All at once he had perceived that she carried a large roll of something wrapped in brown paper. He took it from her, and opened it nervously. It was the crayon portrait of herself executed by the defunct artist.
“Who gave you this here?” cried William Jones, trembling more than ever.
“Tim.”
“Who’s he?”
“Him as come looking arter his master. The painter chap ain’t found; and now Tim’s goin’ away in the cart to tell his friends. And he give me this—my pictur’; he give me it to keep. His master said I were to have it; and I mean to keep it now he’s dead!”
William Jones handed back the picture, and seemed relieved, indeed, when it was out of his hands.
“Dead?” he muttered, not meeting Matt’s eyes, but looking right out to sea. “Who told you he were dead?”
Matt did not reply, but gazed at William so long and so significantly, that the good man, conscious of her scrutiny, turned and plunged into the darkness of his dwelling.
An hour later a loud voice summoned him forth. He went to the door, and there was Monk of Monkshurst. It was the first time they had met since they parted on the night of the murder. Monk was dressed in a dark summer suit, and looked unusually spick and span.
“Where’s the girl?” he cried, after a whispered colloquy of some minutes. “Matt, where are you?”