“A strange girl!” said Barrant, beginning to feel an interest in the story.  “Have you no idea who she was?”

“Wait a bit,” continued Mr. Portgartha, evidently objecting to any intrusion on his right, as narrator, to a delayed climax.  “Well, there we sat, like two ghoostes, till we got to Penzance, but all the time I was thinkin’ to mysel’ that I’d find out who she was.  I sed to myself I’d ride on to the station, instid of gettin’ out a piece this side of it so as to make a short cut across to the Mouse’s Hole, as I usually do.  But that stupid old fule Garge pulled up as usual and bawls through the window, ‘Are you going to keep me here all night, Peter?’ Before I could say a word the young womon says:  ‘I’ll get out here.’  With that she puts the fare into his hand through the open window, and slips out afore I knew what she was going to do.  If it hadn’t been for my rhoomatics, which I got in the war, I’d ’a followed her.  As it was, I couldn’t.”

“So you didn’t see her face, after all?” asked Barrant quickly.

“I didn’t, in a manner of speakin’.  But I did get a glimpse of her as she passed near the lamp-post—­just a half-sight of two big dark eyes in a white face as she went past.  I wouldn’t ’a thought no more of it,” added Mr. Portgartha, laying an impressive hand on his companion’s knee, “but for what happened at Flint House last night.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” In his quickened interest Barrant vainly strove to make his voice appear calm.

“Because the young womon must have coome from Flint House.”

Barrant scrutinized his companion sharply in the dim light.  “Why do you think so?” he asked.

“For’n thing, the wayside crass where she picked up the wagonette is not far from Flint House by acrass the moors—­closer’n goin’ from the house on the cliffs t’ the churchtown, which is a good slant to the north of it.  From Flint House to the crass-roads it’s straight as a dart, if you know yer way, with only one house twixt it till you come arver to it—­old Farmer Bardsley, who ain’t got no wemmenfolk, so it’s sartin she didn’t come from theer.  She wasn’t a maa’iden from any of the farms of the moors, for I know them all.  But it weren’t till this marning that I got a kind of notion who she was.  I dropped into the Tolpen Arms to have a drop of something for a cawld I’ve got, and some of the fishermen were talkin’ about th’ old gentleman of Flint House blowing his head off last night with a gun.  It made me feel queery-like when I heerd aboot it.  ‘Why,’ I says, ‘that’ll be about the time I saw the strange young womon in ol’ Crows’ wagonette.  She must ’ave come from Flint House, now I coome to think of it.’  ‘What young woman was that?’ asked ’Enery Waitts.  So I told them what had happened to me, just like I’ve told it to you.  Mrs. Keegan, the land-lady, who was list’ning, says, ’I shouldn’t be surprised if it was Mr. Turold’s daughter that you saw.  I heard yesterday that his sister was staying at Penzance, so p’raps she was going to her, after it happened.  So if it was her it’s not surprisin’ she didn’t want to speak to you in her grief.’”