“I an’t said a word, your honour,” said she, “since your honour told me not to, though them outside is sharp on me to tell ’em this and that.  And I wouldn’t have said what I did up yonder had I known your honour would be for supporting me.  I was feeling there wasn’t a soul in the place would see justice done for him that’s gone—­the poor, good man!”

“If you want justice, my good woman,” remarked Mr. Lindsey, “keep your tongue quiet, and don’t talk to your neighbours, nor to the police—­just keep anything you know till I tell you to let it out.  Now, then, what’s this you were saying?—­that Crone told you there was a man in the place would give his two eyes to see him a corpse?”

“Them very words, your honour; and not once nor twice, but a good many times did he say it,” replied the woman.  “It was a sort of hint he was giving me, your honour—­he had that way of speaking.”

“Since when did he give you such hints?” asked Mr. Lindsey.  “Was it only lately?”

“It was since that other bloody murder, your honour,” said Nance Maguire.  “Only since then.  He would talk of it as we sat over the fire there at nights.  ‘There’s murder in the air,’ says he.  ’Bloody murder is all around us!’ he says.  ’And it’s myself will have to pick my steps careful,’ he says, ’for there’s him about would give his two eyes to see me a stark and staring corpse,’ he says.  ‘Me knowing,’ he says, ’more than you’d give me credit for,’ says he.  And not another word than them could I get out of him, your honour.”

“He never told you who the man was that he had his fears of?” inquired Mr. Lindsey.

“He did not, then, your honour,” replied Nance.  “He was a close man, and you wouldn’t be getting more out of him than he liked to tell.”

“Now, then, just tell me the truth about a thing or two,” said Mr. Lindsey.  “Crone used to be out at nights now and then, didn’t he?”

“Indeed, then, he did so, your honour,” she answered readily. “’Tis true, he would be out at nights, now and again.”

“Poaching, as a matter of fact,” suggested Mr. Lindsey.

“And that’s the truth, your honour,” she assented.  “He was a clever hand with the rabbits.”

“Aye; but did he never bring home a salmon, now?” asked Mr. Lindsey.  “Come, out with it.”

“I’ll not deny that, neither, your honour,” admitted the woman.  “He was clever at that too.”

“Well, now, about that night when he was supposed to be killed,” continued Mr. Lindsey; “that’s Tuesday last—­this being Thursday.  Did he ever come home that evening from his shop?”

I had been listening silently all this time, and I listened with redoubled attention for the woman’s answer to the last question.  It was on the Tuesday evening, about nine o’clock, that I had had my talk with Crone, and I was anxious to know what happened after that.  And Nance Maguire replied readily enough—­it was evident her memory was clear on these events.