IIINita turned at last, when he was out of sight, and went down the track to Garsykes. Heart she had none to be wounded, but vanity was touched to the quick. Hardcastle would never be moved by her spells from this to the Crack o’ Doom, and with the knowledge came a passionate gust of hate.
It was in this mood that she encountered Will o’ Wisp, lumbering to the inn on heavy feet.
“You’re not your own merry self,” she said. “What ails you?”
“Nita Langrish ails me. I get no rest for wanting of you.”
“Why do all the men go daft for the little basket-weaver? I never ask it, Will o’ Wisp.”
“Maybe,” he growled, “but the lord Harry knows you maze us. I could throttle you where we stand, Nita—just for love of doing it.”
“You couldn’t. I’d put a hand on your arm—like this—and I’d ask you to be
