The tinker might have helped her out, but he chose otherwise. He kept silent, his eyes on Patsy’s as if he would read her answer there before she spoke it to Travis.
“Well,” she said at last, slowly, “maybe I’m not sure of it myself—except—I’m knowing it must be a good tinker name.” And then laughter danced all over her face. “I’ll tell ye; ye can be reading it to-morrow—in the papers.” Whereupon she slipped her arm through the tinker’s, and he led her away.
And so it came to pass that once more Patsy and the tinker found themselves tramping the road to Arden; only this time it was down the straight road marked, “Seven Miles,” and it was early evening instead of morning.
“Do ye think we’ll reach it now?” inquired Patsy.
“We have reached it already; we’re just going back.”
“And what happened to the brown dress?”
“I burned it that night in the cottage—to fool the sheriff.”
“And I thought that night it was me ye had tricked—just for the whim of it. Did ye know who I was—by chance?”
“Of course I knew. I had seen you with the Irish Players many, many times, and I knew you the very moment your voice came over the road to me—wishing me ‘a brave day.’” The tinker’s eyes deepened with tenderness. “Do you think for a moment if I hadn’t known something about you—and wasn’t hungering to know more—that I would have schemed and cheated to keep your comradeship?”