“Let me have one kiss.”
“Get out, you wretch. If you don’t—Well, there’s a detective in the back parlour.”
“Oh, crikey!” exclaimed Cooney. “I’ll step it if you please, my dear, but you might——”
“Hush!” cried the girl, “he’ll hear,” and she pointed significantly to the door of the back parlour.
She found this ruse a most admirable and efficacious one, for Cooney hesitated no longer. He as noiselessly as possible passed out of the house, and was lost to sight in an incredibly short space of time.
Amy laughed.
There was no detective in the house, but she had got rid of a troublesome customer by the mere mention of such a personage.
The contents of the letter which Mrs. Bourne received from Rawton proved to be sufficiently satisfactory to that lady. The epistle was a brief one.
The gipsy congratulated her upon being rid of what he chose to term a tyrannical and worthless husband, and at the same time he said he did not require a recompense or even thanks for whatever he had done for her.
It was enough for him to know that she was relieved from an oppressive thraldom, that she was now her own mistress, and that he had been of some little service to her, or at any rate what he had done was with the view of rendering her a service.