“My poor woman, you must be raving,” he replied.  “What could a destitute creature like you know about my affairs?  I don’t remember that I ever saw you before.”

“That’s not the question, Thomas Gourlay, but the question is, what have you done with the child of your eldest brother, the lawful heir of the property and title that you now bear, and bear unjustly.”

He was much startled by this allusion, for although aware that the disappearance of the child in question had been for many long years well known, yet, involved, as it was, in unaccountable mystery, still the circumstance had never been forgotten.

“That’s an old story, my good woman,” he replied.  “You don’t charge me, I hope, as some have done, with making away with him?  You might as well charge me with kidnapping my own son, you foolish woman, who, you know, I suppose, disappeared very soon after the other.”

“I know he did,” she replied; “but neither I nor any one else ever charged you with that act; and I know there are a great many of opinion that both acts were committed by some common enemy to your house, who wished, for some unknown cause of hatred, to extinguish your whole family.  That is, indeed, the best defence you have for the disappearance of your brother’s son; but, mark me, Thomas Gourlay—­that defence will not pass with God, with me, nor with your own heart.  I have my own opinion upon that subject, as well as upon many others.  You may ask your own conscience, Thomas Gourlay, but he’ll be a close friend of yours that will ever hear its answer.”

“And is this all you had to say to me, you ill-thinking old vermin.” he replied, again losing his temper.

“No,” she answered, “I wish to tell your fortune; and you will do well to listen to me.”

“Well,” said he, in a milder tone, putting at the same time the key of Lucy’s door again into his pocket, without being in the slightest degree conscious of it, “if you are, I suppose I must cross your hand with silver as usual; take this.”

“No,” she replied, drawing back with another ghastly smile, the meaning of which was to him utterly undefinable, “from your hand nothing in the shape of money will ever pass into mine; but listen”—­she looked at him for some moments, during which she paused, and then added—­“I will not do it, I am not able to render good for evil, yet; I will suffer you to run your course.  I am well aware that neither warning nor truth would have any effect upon you, unless to enable you to prepare and sharpen your plans with more ingenious villany.  But you have a daughter; I will speak to you about her.”

“Do,” said the baronet; “but why not take the silver?”

“You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don’t think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.”

“Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.”

“I’ll now give you a proof of that.  You locked in your daughter before you left home.”