“I suppose he recognized Josiah readily?”

“Yes, he had been a servant of George’s friend, Mr. Woodburn, and George says he was a man indulgently treated and much trusted.”

“I infer from what I learned to-day that George told you all this and had already seen Swallow, so that the trap was set and Mr. Woodburn was to arrive.  Did George imagine you would warn my poor barber—­”

“But I—­I didn’t—­I mean—­I let John hear about it—­and he told Josiah.”

He listened.  Here was another Mrs. Ann.  There was in Ann at times a bewildering childlike simplicity with remarkable intelligence—­a combination to be found in some of the nobler types of womanhood.  He made no remark upon her way of betraying the trust implied in George Grey’s commonplace confession.

“So, then, my dear, John went and gave the man a warning?”

“Yes, I would have gone, but it was at night and I thought it better to let John see him.  How he did it I did not want to know—­I preferred to know nothing about it.”

This last sentence so appealed to Penhallow’s not very ready sense of humour that he felt it needful to control his mirth as he saw her watching earnestness.  “Grey, I presume, called on that rascal Swallow, Mr. Woodburn is sent for, and meanwhile Josiah is told and wisely runs away.  He will never be caught.  Anything else, my dear?”

“Yes, I said to George that we would buy Josiah’s freedom—­what amuses you, James?” He was smiling.

“Oh, the idea of buying a man’s power to go and come, when he has been his own master for years.  You were right, but it seems that you failed—­or, so I infer.”

“Yes.  He said Mr. Woodburn was still angry and always had considered Josiah wickedly ungrateful.”  Penhallow looked at his wife.  Her sense of the comedies of life was sometimes beyond his comprehension, but now—­now was she not a little bit, half consciously, of the defrauded master’s opinion?

“And so, when that failed, you went to bank and drew out the poor fellow’s savings?” He meant to hear the whole story.  There was worse yet, and he was sure she would speak of it.  But now she was her courageous self and desired to confess her share in the matter.  “Of course, he had to have money, Ann.”

She wanted to get through with this, the most unpleasant part of the matter.  “I want to tell you,” she said.  “I drew out his money with a cheque John made out and Josiah signed.  John took him his two hundred dollars, as he knew where Josiah would hide—­I—­I did not want to know.”

Her large part in this perilous business began to trouble the Squire.  His face had long been to her an open book, and she saw in his silence the man’s annoyance.  She added instantly, “I could not let John draw it—­and Josiah would not—­he was too scared.  He had to have his money.  Was I wrong—­was I foolish, James?”