“What did Mathers say about him?” she demanded.

“What could he?  He told me that he cried all day and begged to be taken back to America.”

“No one goes near the place, I suppose?” she asked.

“Not a soul.  A man comes from the village to sell things once a week.  Mathers knows when to expect him and takes care that Wenham is not around.  They are out of the world there—­no road, no paths, nothing to bring even a tourist.  I could have imagined such a spot in Arizona, Elizabeth, but in England—­no!”

“Has he any amusements at all?” she inquired.

The man’s hands were shaking; once more his eyes went longingly toward the cupboard.

“He has made—­a doll,” he said, “carved it out of a piece of wood and dressed it in oddments from his ties.  Mathers showed it to me as a joke.  Elizabeth, it was wonderful—­horrible!”

“Why?” she asked him.

“It is you,” he continued, moistening his lips with his tongue, “you, in a blue gown—­your favorite shade.  He has even made blue stockings and strange little shoes.  He has got some hair from somewhere and parted it just like yours.”

“It sounds very touching,” she remarked.

The man was shivering again.

“Elizabeth,” he said, “I do not think that he means it kindly.  Mathers took me up into his room.  He has made something there which looks like a scaffold.  The doll was hanging by a piece of string from the gallows.  Elizabeth!—­my God, but it was like you!” he cried, suddenly dropping his head upon his arms.

For a moment, a reflection of the terror which had seized him flashed in her own face.  It passed quickly away.  She laughed mockingly.

“My dear father,” she protested, “you are certainly not yourself this morning.”

“I saw you swinging,” he muttered, “swinging by that piece of cord!  There was a great black pin through your heart.  Elizabeth, if he should get away sometime!  If some one should come over from America and discover where he was!  If he should find us out!  Oh, my God, if he should find us out!”

Elizabeth had risen to her feet.  She was standing now before the fire, her left elbow resting upon the mantelpiece, a trifle of silver gleaming in her right hand.

“Father,” she said, “there is no danger in life for those who know no fear.  Look at me.”

His eyes sought hers, fascinated.

“If he should find me out,” she continued, “it would be no such terrible thing, after all.  It would be the end.”

Her fingers disclosed the little ornament she was carrying—­a tiny pistol.  She slipped it back into her pocket.  The man was wondering how such a thing as this came to be his daughter.

“You have courage, Elizabeth,” he whispered.

“I have courage,” she assented, “because I have brains.  I never allow myself to be in a position where I should be likely to get the worst of it.  Ever since the day when he turned so suddenly against me, I have been careful.”