Paul and Don stared at one another questioningly, but Fawkes' sandy countenance assumed a deeper hue.
"She's the worst character in these parts," he went on hastily. "Bad as her father, she is."
"Father, she is," mocked the echo.
"She'll come to a bad end," declared the now scarlet Fawkes.
"A bad end," concurred the magical echo, its accent and intonation eerily reproducing those of the gamekeeper. Then: "Whose wife stole the key of the poor-box?" inquired the spirit voice, and finally: "When are they going to burn you?"
At that Don succumbed to uncontrollable laughter, and Paul had much ado to preserve his gravity.
"She appears to be very young, Fawkes," he said gently; "little more than a child. High spirits are proper and natural after all; but, of course I appreciate the difficulties of your position. Good day."
"Good day, sir," said Fawkes, again momentarily relieved apparently from the sense of impending harm. "Good day, sir." He raised the peak of his cap, turned and resumed his slinking progress.
"A strange coincidence," commented Don, taking Paul's arm.
"You are pursuing your fancy about the nymph visible and invisible?"