There was no coldness, no restraint in her voice.  She spoke as if she was glad to see me, and wanted me to know it.  Instantly a burden rolled away from my heart, and for a few minutes I was the happiest of men.  Presently I heard voices at the library door, and immediately Miss Forrest’s kindness and cheerfulness vanished, and those who entered the room must have fancied that I was annoying her with my company.  I remained in the room a few minutes longer, but she was studiously cold and polite to me, so that when I made a pretence of going out to the stables to see a new horse Tom Temple had bought, I did so with a heavy heart.

I had no sooner entered the stable-yard than Simon Slowden appeared, and beckoned to me.

“I looked hout for yer honour all day yesterday,” he said, “but you lay like a hare in a furze bush.  Things is looking curious, yer honour.”

“Indeed, Simon.  How?”

“Can ’ee come this yer way a minit, yer honour?” “Certainly,” I said, and followed him into a room over the stables.  I did not like having confidences in this way; but my brain was confused, and I could not rid myself from the idea that some plot was being concocted against me.

Simon looked around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers; then he said, “There’s a hancient wirgin ’ere called Miss Staggles, ain’t there, Mr. Blake?”

“There is.  Why?”

“It’s my belief as ’ow she’s bin a waccinated ten times, yer honour.”

“Why, Simon?”

“Why, she’s without blood or marrow, she is; and as for flesh, she ain’t got none.”

“Well, what for that?”

“And not honly that,” he continued, without heeding my question, “she hain’t a got a hounce of tender feelin’s in her natur.  In my opinion, sur, she’s a witch, she is, and hev got dealin’s with the devil.”

“And what for all this?” I said.  “Surely you haven’t taken me up here to give me your impressions concerning Miss Staggles?”

“Well, I hev partly, yer honour.  The truth is”—­here he sunk his voice to a whisper—­“she’s very thick with that willain with a hinfidel’s name.  They’re in league, sur.”  “How do you know?”

“They’ve bin a-promenadin’ together nearly every day since Christmas; and when a feller like that ‘ere Woltaire goes a-walkin’ with a creature like that hancient wirgin on his arm, then I think there must be somethin’ on board.”

“But this is purely surmise, Simon.  There is no reason why Miss Staggles and Mr. Voltaire may not walk together.”

“There’s more than surmise, sur.  You know the plantation up behind the house, Mr. Blake?”

“The fir plantation?  Very well.”