“They’ll take her to that cottage yonder: I helped to get it ready for ’em,” muttered her companion hoarsely.
“What cottage?” she asked, surprised.
“Not better than a dog kennel!—but good enough for the gentleman from London—him what they call a hanalist—’e who’s the cause of many a ’anging,” whispered the man.
And then Jean remembered that on the other side of the churchyard wall, standing in a field, was a kind of shanty which she knew had been condemned, largely owing to her uncle’s efforts, as unfit for human habitation some months ago.
She forced herself to ask what was to her an all-important question.
“Is it there that they’ll find out what Mrs. Garlett died from?”
“Lord, no!” he exclaimed, astonished at such ignorance, “that’s a long business—that’s done in London.”
“Then wh
