Bumpett dropped his arm with a jerk.
“Did ’e say Evans? Hosea Evans?”
“I did; an’ I’ll say it again if ye’ve any fancy for jumpin’ like that. He’s as dead as a nail. Died just after he come out of jail, an’ left every damn penny o’ two hundred pound to the toll-keeper’s wench that used to keep company wi’ Rhys Walters.”
This time the Pig-driver was not to be borne down by any superfluous knowledge on the part of his companion.
“She’s lucky,” he observed shortly.
“And so’s the chap that’s married her. His name’s Williams, and he used to live in a queer enough place up by the mountain, and do a turn at hedgin’ now an’ again. Not much hedgin’ now, I suppose. Livin’ like a lord, more likely.”
Bumpett’s tongue grew dry, and he grinned mechanically; his lips stretched and went back like pieces of elastic, and his friend, who was waiting for some tribute to his superior information, could hear odd sounds going on inside his mouth.
“Ah, you didn’t know that!” he exclaimed, “and I’ll wager ye didn’t know ’twas him killed Vaughan an’ not Rhys Walters. He came out with it all on his death-bed to the Parson o’ Crishowell.”
“Go on wi’ ye!” broke out the Pig-driver.
“That’s all very fine,” replied the stranger in a tone of offence, “but just you go off to the police at Llangarth and see! Lewis an’ the doctor an’ a woman was witness to it, an’ it’s written down in the Law, I tell ’e. Like enough the Queen has it all at her fingers’ ends by now.”