old."

"Her name, same as mine, Daver-hill." He made the mistake, fatal to
clear speech, of overdoing articulation. All the more that it caused a
false aspirate; not a frequent error with him, in spite of his long
association with defective speakers. It relieved her mind. Clearly a
surname and a prefix. She had not got it right yet, though. She forgot
she had it written down, already.

"I did not hear the first name clear, sir. Would you mind saying it
again?"

He did not answer at once. He was looking fixedly ahead, as though
something had caught his attention in the coppice they were approaching.
A moment later, without looking round, he answered rapidly:--"Same name
as mine--you've got it written down, on the paper I gave you." And then,
without another word, he turned and ran. He was so quick afoot, in spite
of the halting gait he had shown in walking, that he was through the
hedge he made for, across the grassland, and half-way over the
stubble-field that lay between it and a plantation, before she knew the
cause of his sudden scare. Then voices came from the coppice ahead--a
godsend to the poor old lady, whose courage had been sorely tried by the
interview--and she quickened her pace to meet them. She did not see the
fugitive vanish, but pressed on.

Yes--just as she thought! One of the voices was that of Harry Costrell,
her grandson-in-law; another that of a stranger to her, a
respectable-looking man she was too upset to receive any other
impression of, at the moment; and the third that of her granddaughter.
Such a relief it was, to hear the cheerful ring of her greeting.

"Why, Granny, we thought you strayed and we would have to look for ye in
Chorlton Pound.... Why, Granny darling, whatever is the matter? There--I
declare you're shaking all over!"

Old Phoebe showed splendid discipline. It was impossible to conceal her
agitation, but she could make light of it. She had a motive. Remember
that that great grandchild of hers had been born over a twelvemonth ago!
"My dear," she said, "I've been just fritted out of my five wits by a
man with a limp, that took me for his mother and I never saw him in my
life." It did not seem to her that this was "splitting upon" the man.
After all, she would have to account for him somehow, and it was safest
to ascribe insanity to him.

But the respectable-looking man had suddenly become an energy with a
purpose. "Which way's the man with the limp gone?" said he; adding to