It was at this point of his meditation that Mother Cockleshell arrived at the inn.  He heard her jovial voice outside and judged from its tone that the old dame was in excellent spirits.  Her visit seemed to be a hint from heaven as to what he should do.  Gentilla hated Chaldea and loved Agnes, so Lambert felt that she would be able to help him.  As soon as possible he had her brought into the sitting room, and, having made her sit down, closed both the door and the window, preparatory to telling her all that he had learned.  The conversation was, indeed, an important one, and he was anxious that it should take place without witnesses.

“You are kind, sir,” said Mother Cockleshell, who had been supplied with a glass of gin and water.  “But it ain’t for the likes of me to be sitting down with the likes of you.”

“Nonsense!  We must have a long talk, and I can’t expect you to stand all the time—­at your age.”

“Some Gentiles ain’t so anxious to save the legs of old ones,” remarked Gentilla Stanley cheerfully.  “But I always did say as you were a golden one for kindness of heart.  Well, them as does what’s unexpected gets what they don’t hope for.”

“I have got my heart’s desire, Mother,” said Lambert, sitting down and lighting his pipe.  “I am happy now.”

“Not as happy as you’d like to be, sir,” said the old woman, speaking quite in the Gentile manner, and looking like a decent charwoman.  “You’ve a dear wife, as I don’t deny, Mr. Lambert, but money is what you want.”

“I have enough for my needs.”

“Not for her needs, sir.  She should be wrapped in cloth of gold and have a path of flowers to tread upon.”

“It’s a path of thorns just now,” muttered Lambert moodily.

“Not for long, sir; not for long.  I come to put the crooked straight and to raise a lamp to banish the dark.  Very good this white satin is,” said Mother Cockleshell irrelevantly, and alluding to the gin.  “And terbaccer goes well with it, as there’s no denying.  You wouldn’t mind my taking a whiff, sir, would you?” and she produced a blackened clay pipe which had seen much service.  “Smoking is good for the nerves, Mr. Lambert.”

The young man handed her his pouch.  “Fill up,” he said, smiling at the idea of his smoking in company with an old gypsy hag.

“Bless you, my precious!” said Mother Cockleshell, accepting the offer with avidity, and talking more in the Romany manner.  “I allers did say as you were what I said before you were, and that’s golden, my Gorgious one.  Ahime!” she blew a wreath of blue smoke from her withered lips, “that’s food to me, my dearie, and heat to my old bones.”

Lambert nodded.  “You hinted, in Devonshire, that you had something to say, and a few moments ago you talked about putting the crooked straight.”

“And don’t the crooked need that same?” chuckled Gentilla, nodding.  “There’s trouble at hand, my gentleman.  The child’s brewing witch’s broth, for sure.”