Perplexity, superstition, and common sense fought each other.  Halsey who knew much of his Bible by heart was inwardly comparing texts.  “A spirit hath not flesh and blood”—­True—­but on the other hand what about the “bodies of the saints”—­that “arose”?  While, perhaps, the strongest motive of all in the old man’s mind was the obstinate desire to prove himself right, and so to confound young scoffers like Dempsey.

Dempsey, however, having as he thought disposed of Halsey’s foolish tale was determined to tell his own, which had already made a great impression in certain quarters of the village, and ranked indeed as the chief sensation of the day.  To be able to listen to the story of a murder told by the grandson of the murderer, to whom the criminal himself had confessed it, and that without any fear of unpleasant consequences to any one, was a treat that Ipscombe had seldom enjoyed, especially as the village was still rich in kinsfolk of both murdered and murderer.

Dempsey had already repeated the story so often that it was by now perfect in every detail, and it produced the same effect in this lamplit kitchen as in other.  Halsey, forgetting his secret ill-humour, was presently listening open-mouthed.  Mrs. Halsey laid down her knitting, and stared at the speaker over the top of her spectacles; while across Betts’s gnome-like countenance smiles went out and in, especially at the more gruesome points of the tale.  The light sparkled on the young Canadian’s belt, the Maple Leaf in the khaki hat which lay across his knees, on the badge of the Forestry Corps on his shoulder.  The old English cottage, with its Tudor brick-work, and its overhanging beams, the old English labourers with the stains of English soil upon them, made the setting; and in the midst, sat the “new man,” from the New World, holding the stage, just as Ellesborough the New Englander was accustomed to hold it, at Great End Farm.  All over England, all over unravaged France and northern Italy similar scenes at that moment were being thrown on the magic sheet of life; and at any drop in the talk, the observer could almost hear, in the stillness, the weaving of the Great Loom on which the Ages come and go.

There was a pause, when Dempsey came to a dramatic end with the last breath of his grandfather; till Mrs. Halsey said dryly, fixing the young man with her small beady eyes,—­

“And you don’t mind telling on your own grandfather?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” laughed Dempsey, “when it’s sixty years ago.  They’ve lost their chance of hanging him anyhow.”

Mrs. Halsey shook her head in inarticulate protest.  Betts said reflectively,—­

“I wouldn’t advise you to be tellin’ that tale to Miss Henderson.”

Dempsey’s expression changed at the name.  He bent forward eagerly.

“By the way, who is Miss Henderson?  Do you know where she comes from?”

The others stared.

“Last winter,” said Betts at last, “she wor on a farm down Devonshire way.  And before that she wor at college—­with Miss Janet.”