always a lot of raffish young fellows hangin’ round to see the ladies go down—­to see what they can see, you knaw.  But I never ’ave no accidents like that.  No bold-eyed young chap ever saw the leg of any lady in my charge—­not so much as the top of a boot, because I knaw how to taake them down.  I’m well known to some of the ’ighest ladies in the land because I ‘ev been aable to take care of their legs when they were goin’ down.  I’ve had letters from them thaankin’ me.  You’ve no idea how grateful they be.”

This startling instance of the stern morality of aristocratic womanhood was unfortunately wasted on Barrant, whose thoughts had reverted to the principal preoccupation of his mind.  Mr. Portgartha rambled on.

“Aw, but it’s strange to be meetin’ you like this, in old Garge’s wagonette.  For twelve months I’ve been goin’ acrass the moors to see a sister of mine, who’s lonely, poor saul, havin’ lost her man in the war—­drawned in a drifter ‘e was—­and catchin’ this wagonette back every night, with never a saul to speak to, until last night.  Last night there was a passerger, and to-night there’s you.  Tes strange, come to think of it.”  He looked hard at Barrant as if for some confirmatory expression of surprise at this remarkable accession to the wagonette’s fares.  He waited so long that Barrant felt called upon to say something.

“Who was your fellow passenger last night?”

“Now you’re asking me a question which takes a bit of answerin’,” replied Mr. Portgartha. “‘Twas like this.  I was waitin’ at the crass-roads for old Garge to come along, when a young womon came up out of th’ darkness and stood not far from me—­just by the ol’ crass.  I tried to maake out who she was, but it was too daark.  So I just says to her, ‘Good ebenin’, miss, are you waitin’ for the wagonette too?’ She never answered a word, and before I could think of anything else to say old Garge came along, and we both got in She sat in a corner, silent as a ghooste.  Well, then, I went to light th’ lamp, same as I have to-night, but as luck would ’ave it, I hadn’t a match.  I knaw it was no use askin’ old Garge, ’cos he’d pretend not to hear, so I turned to the young womon sittin’ opposite, and asked her if she had a match in her pocket.  And do you knaw, I declare to gudeness she never said nawthen, not so much as a word!”

“Perhaps she was dumb?” Barrant suggested.

“Aw, iss, doomb enough then,” retorted Mr. Portgartha.  “I tried her two or three times more, but couldn’t get a word out of her.  Well, at last I began to get narvous, thinkin’ she might be a sperit.  So I leant across to her an’ says, ’Caan’t you say a word, miss?  It’s only Peter Portgartha speaking, he’s well known for his respect for your sect.  No young womon need be frightened of speakin’ to Peter Portgartha.’  And with that she spaaks at last, with a quick little gasp like a sob—­I’m thinking I can hear it at this minute—­’Aw,’ she says, ‘why caan’t you leave me alone?’ ‘Never be afraaid,’ I says, for I have my pride like other folk, ’I’ll say no more.  Peter Portgartha has no need to foorce his conversation where it ain’t welcome.’”