The countenance of the old woman grew dark—dark as night. She fixed upon me a wild, inquiring gaze.
"You speak of Alice. In the name of God, tell me what has become of her!"
"Upon one condition," said I, laying my hand upon her shoulder and whispering the words into her ear. "Tell me what has become of Philip Mornington."
"Ha!" said the old woman, trying to shake off my grasp; "what do you know of him?"
"Enough to hang you—something that the grave in the dark shrubbery can reveal."
"Has she told you that? The fool! the idiot! in so doing she betrayed herself."
"She told me nothing. The eye that witnessed the deed confided to me that secret. The earth will not conceal the stain of blood. Did you never hear that fact before? Is not my secret as good as yours, Dinah North? Are you willing to make an exchange?"
The old woman crouched herself together, and buried her face between her knees. Her hands opened and shut with a convulsive motion, as if they retained something in their grasp with which she was unwilling to part. At length, raising her head, she said in a decided manner:
"The law has lost in you a worthy member; but I accept the terms. Come to me to-morrow at nine o'clock."
"To-night, or never!"