The moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it serene and bore unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. It was she who spoke first, and then they knew her, and the spell which held them dumb was broken.
"What do you want?" she demanded. "I should like to hear."
Then they began to shout again.
"We want Murdoch!" they said. "We ha' summat to say to him."
"He is not here," she said. "He has not been here."
"That's a lee," remarked a gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd. "A dom'd un."
She made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody laughed.
"Why do you want him?" she said next.
"We want to hear about that contrapshun o' his as is goin' to mak' th' mesters indypendent. He knows what we want him fur. We've just been to his house and brokken th' winders. He's getten wind on us comin', an' he made off wi' th' machine. He'll be here afore long if he is na here now, an' we're bound to see him."
"He'll be up to see thee," put in the gentleman on the outskirts, "an' I dunnot blame him. I'm glad I coom mysen. Tha's worth th' trip an' I'm a Dillup chap, moind yo'."
She stood quite still as before and let them look at her, to see what effect the words had produced. It seemed as if they had produced none.
"If you have come to see him," she said, after a few seconds, "you may go away again. He is not here. I know where he is, and you cannot reach him. If there has not been some blunder, he is far enough away."
She told the lie without flinching in the least, and with
