“Deary me, lass, ye mak a ghost of yersel', coming and going sa sudden.”
“And you make ghosts of other people.” Then, without a moment's warning, Rotha looked close into her eyes and said, “Who killed James Wilson? Tell me quick, quick.”
Mrs. Garth flinched, and for the instant looked confused.
“Tell me, woman, tell me; who killed him there—there where you've been beating the ground to conceal the remaining traces of a struggle?”
“Go off and ask thy father,” said Mrs. Garth, recovering herself; and then she added, with a sneer, “but mind thou'rt quick, or he'll never tell thee in this world.” “Nor will you tell me in the next. Woman, woman!” cried Rotha in another tone, “woman, have you any bowels? You have no heart, I know; but can you stand by and be the death of two men who have never, never done you wrong?”
Rotha clutched Mrs. Garth's dress in the agony of her appeal.
“You have a son, too. Think of him standing where they stand, an innocent man.”
Rotha had dropped to her knees in the road, still clinging to Mrs. Garth's dress.
“What's all this to me, girl? Let go yer hod, do you hear? Will ye let go? What wad I know about Wilson—nowt.”
“It's a lie,” cried Rotha, starting to her feet. “What were you doing in his room at Fornside?”