She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. An uncomfortable silence followed. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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