“Sixpence, sir.”
The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question.
“What is that lady’s name?”
The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s Fairy.”
“But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.
“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which was now lying by the side of the first.
“And where does John Shelley live?”
“At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.”
“Comment? How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?”
“Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further.