“Can we see the Grimshaw boy?” Mr. Hacket inquired.

“I guess so,” he answered as he lazily rose from his chair and took down a bunch of large keys which had been hanging on the wall.  “His father has just left.”

He spoke in a low, solemn tone which impressed me deeply as he put a lighted candle in the hand of the schoolmaster.  He led us through a door into a narrow corridor.  He thrust a big key into the lock of a heavy iron grating and threw it open and bade us step in.  We entered an ill-smelling, stone-floored room with a number of cells against its rear wall.  He locked the door behind us.  I saw a face and figure in the dim candle-light, behind the grated door of one of these cells.  How lonely and dejected and helpless was the expression of that figure!  The sheriff went to the door and unlocked it.

“Hello, Grimshaw,” he said sternly.  “Step out here.”

It all went to my heart—­the manners of the sheriff so like the cold iron of his keys and doors—­the dim candle-light, the pale, frightened youth who walked toward us.  We shook his hand and he said that he was glad to see us.  I saw the scar under his left ear and reaching out upon his cheek which my stone had made and knew that he bore the mark of Cain.

He asked if he could see me alone and the sheriff shook his head and said sternly: 

“Against the rules.”

“Amos, I’ve a boy o’ my own an’ I feel for ye,” said the schoolmaster.  “I’m going to come here, now and then, to cheer ye up and bring ye some books to read.  If there’s any word of advice I can give ye—­let me know.  Have ye a lawyer?”

“There’s one coming to-morrow.”

“Don’t say a word about the case, boy, to any one but your lawyer—­mind that.”

We left him and went to our home and beds.  I to spend half the night thinking of my discovery, since which, for some reason, I had no doubt of the guilt of Amos, but I spoke not of it to any one and the secret worried me.

Next morning on my way to school I passed a scene more strange and memorable than any in my long experience.  I saw the shabby figure of old Benjamin Grimshaw walking in the side path.  His hands were in his pockets, his eyes bent upon the ground, his lips moving as if he were in deep thought.  Roving Kate, the ragged, silent woman who, for the fortune of Amos, had drawn a gibbet, the shadow of which was now upon him, walked slowly behind the money-lender pointing at him with her bony forefinger.  Her stern eyes watched him as the cat watches when its prey is near it.  She did not notice me.  Silently, her feet wrapped in rags, she walked behind the man, always pointing at him.  When he stopped she stopped.  When he resumed his slow progress she followed.  It thrilled me, partly because I had begun to believe in the weird, mysterious power of the Silent Woman.  I had twenty minutes to spare and so I turned into the main street, behind and close by them.  I saw him stop and buy some crackers and an apple and a piece of cheese.  Meanwhile she stood pointing at him.  He saw, but gave no heed to her.  He walked along the street in front of the stores, she following as before.  How patiently she followed!