“Varry little, ey’m afear’d,” replied Nance.

“And the worst of it is,” continued the squire—­new lights breaking upon him, “I shall be liable for all the sums he has received.  He was my confidential agent, and the lenders will come upon me.  It must be six or seven hundred pounds that he has obtained in this nefarious way.  Zounds!  I shall go mad.”

“Yo wur to blame fo’ trustin him, squoire,” rejoined Nance.  “Yo ought to ha’ made proper inquiries about him at first, an then yo’d ha’ found out what sort o’ chap he wur.  Boh now ey’n tell ye.  Lawrence Fogg is chief o’ a band o’ robbers, an aw the black an villanous deeds done of late i’ this place, ha’ been parpetrated by his men.  A poor gentleman wur murdert by ’em i’ this varry spot th’ week efore last, an his body cast into t’ river.  Fogg, of course, had no hont in the fow deed, boh he would na ha interfered to prevent it if he had bin here, fo’ he never scrupled shedding blood.  An if he had bin content wi’ robbin’ yo, squoire, ey wadna ha betrayed him; boh when he proposed to cut your throttle, bekose, os he said, dead men tell neaw teles, ey could howd out nah longer, an resolved to gi’ yo warnin.”

“What a monstrous and unheard-of villain!” cried the squire.  “But is he one of the ambuscade?”

Nance replied in the affirmative.

“Then, by heaven!  I will confront him—­I will hew him down,” pursued Nicholas, griping the hilt of his sword.

“Neaw use, ey tell ye—­yo’n be overpowert an kilt,” said Nance.  “Tak me wi’ yo, an ey’n carry yo safely through em aw; boh ge alone, or yo’n ne’er see Downham again.  An now it’s reet ey should tell ye who Lawrence Fogg really is.”

“What new wonder is in store for me?” cried Nicholas.  “Who is he?”

“Maybe yo ha heerd tell that Mother Demdike had a son and a dowter,” replied Nance; “the dowter bein’, of course, Elizabeth Device; and the son, Christopher Demdike, being supposed to be dead.  Howsomever, this is not the case, for Lawrence Fogg is he.”

“I guessed as much when you began,” cried Nicholas.  “He has a cursedly bad look about the eyes—­a damned Demdike physiognomy.  What an infernal villain the fellow must be! without a jot of natural feeling.  Why, he has this very day assisted at his nephew’s capture, and caused his own sister to be arrested.  Oh, I have been properly duped!  To lodge a son of that infernal hag in my house—­feed him, clothe him, make him my friend—­take him, the viper! to my bosom!  I have been rightly served.  But he shall hang!—­he shall hang!  That is some consolation, though slight.  But how do you know all this, Nance?”

“Dunna ax me,” she replied.  “Whatever ey ha’ been to Christopher Demdike, ey bear him neaw love now; fo’, as ey ha towd yo, he is a black-hearted murtherin’ villain.  Boh lemme get up behind yo, an ey’n bring yo through scatheless.  An to-morrow yo may arrest the whole band at Malkin Tower.”