he fire there at
nights. 'There's murder in the air,' says he. 'Bloody murder is all
around us!' he says. 'And it's myself will have to pick my steps
careful,' he says, 'for there's him about would give his two eyes to see
me a stark and staring corpse,' he says. 'Me knowing,' he says, 'more
than you'd give me credit for,' says he. And not another word than them
could I get out of him, your honour."

"He never told you who the man was that he had his fears of?" inquired
Mr. Lindsey.

"He did not, then, your honour," replied Nance. "He was a close man, and
you wouldn't be getting more out of him than he liked to tell."

"Now, then, just tell me the truth about a thing or two," said Mr.
Lindsey. "Crone used to be out at nights now and then, didn't he?"

"Indeed, then, he did so, your honour," she answered readily. "'Tis true,
he would be out at nights, now and again."

"Poaching, as a matter of fact," suggested Mr. Lindsey.

"And that's the truth, your honour," she assented. "He was a clever hand
with the rabbits."

"Aye; but did he never bring home a salmon, now?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"Come, out with it."

"I'll not deny that, neither, your honour," admitted the woman. "He was
clever at that too."

"Well, now, about that night when he was supposed to be killed,"
continued Mr. Lindsey; "that's Tuesday last--this being Thursday. Did he
ever come home that evening from his shop?"

I had been listening silently all this time, and I listened with
redoubled attention for the woman's answer to the last question. It was
on the Tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, that I had had my talk with
Crone, and I was anxious to know what happened after that. And Nance
Maguire replied readily enough--it was evident her memory was clear on
these events.

"He did not, then," she said. "He was in here having his tea at six
o'clock that evening, and he went away to the shop when he'd had it, and
I never put my eyes on him again, alive, your honour. He was never home
that night, and he didn't come to his breakfast next morning, and he
wasn't at the shop--and I never heard this or that of him till they come
and tell me the bad news."

I knew then what must have happened. After I had left him, Crone had gone
away up the river towards Tillmouth--he had a crazy old bicycle that he
rode about on. And most people, having heard Nance Maguire's admissions,
would have said that he had gone poaching. But I was not so sure of that.
I was beg