“Yes,” Rotha answered, leaning as much as possible over the fire that she was mending.

The tone of the reply made an impression on Willy.  In a moment more he appeared to realize that there, had throughout been something unusual in the girl’s demeanor.

“Not well, Rotha?” he asked in a subdued tone.  It had flashed across his mind that perhaps her father was once more in some way the cause of her trouble.

“Oh, very well!” she answered, throwing up her head with a little touch of forced gayety.

“Why, there are tears in your eyes, girl.  No?  Oh, but there are!” They are tears of joy, he thought.  She loves Ralph as a brother. “I laugh when I’m happy, Rotha; it seems that you cry.”

“Do I?” she answered, and wondered if the merciful Father above would ever, ever, ever let this bitter hour pass by.

“No, it’s worry, Rotha, that’s it; you’re not well, that’s the truth.”

Willy would have been satisfied to let the explanation resolve itself into this, but Rotha broke silence, saying, “What if it were not good news—­”

The words were choking her, and she stopped.

“Not good news—­what news?” asked Willy, half muttering the girl’s words in a bewildered way.

“The news that the constables have gone.”

“Gone!  What is it?  What do you mean, Rotha?”

“What if the constables have gone,” said the girl, struggling with her emotion, “only because—­what if they have gone—­because—­because Ralph is taken.”

“Taken!  Where?  What are you thinking of?”

“And what if Ralph is to be charged, not with treason—­no, but with—­with murder?  Oh, Willy!” the girl cried in her distress, throwing away all disguise, “it is true, true; it is true.”

Willy sat down stupefied.  With a wild and rigid look, he stared at Rotha as they sat face to face, eye to eye.  He said nothing.  A sense of horror mastered him.

“And this is not all,” continued Rotha, the tears rolling down her cheeks.  “What would you say of the person who did it—­of the person who put Ralph in the way of this—­this death?” cried the girl, now burying her face in her hands.

Willy’s lips were livid.  They moved as if in speech, but the words would not come.

“What would I say?” he said at length, bitterly and scornfully, as he rose from his seat with rigid limbs.  “I would say—­” He stopped; his teeth were clinched.  He drew one hand impatiently across his face.  The idea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that moment got possession of his mind.  “Never ask me what I would say,” he cried.

“Willy, dear Willy,” sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, “that person—­”

The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself.

“That person was MYSELF!”

“You!” cried Willy, breaking from her embrace.  “And the murder?” he asked hoarsely, “whose murder?”