“Then, if not dead, worse than death has happened to her,” groans the poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than dishonour.”
For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? let me have that, at any rate.”
“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their usual course, I feel sure someone will betray him or herself unawares. I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions are aroused in the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the best of my ability.”
“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can be done before you leave us?”
“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, upwards—take their names, ages, occupations, etc., from their own lips. I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I will undertake to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience who will hide it from my eye.”
Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the detective.
Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements made.”
First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very red, and very much ashamed of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks.
The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss Warden’s maid is.
“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.”
“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?”
“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at her master.
“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr. Hill, sympathetically. “That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, etc., as Miss Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any case I must see her.”
Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young mistress’s style.
Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, he should have been compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted.
“Your name, if you please?” he asks.
“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his fixed gaze.
“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?”
“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.”
“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for America?”
Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. “How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know of my brother Tom? He may be dead and buried for anything I care.”
“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from
