“I should like to do what is proper by the old lady,” said Mrs. Preedy.
But my idea is that she wants to be the first to see what treasure is concealed in the old lady’s mattrass.
One day I ventured to speak to the old lady about the murder in No. 119, and I elicited from her that two detectives had paid her a visit, to ascertain whether she had heard anything from the next house on the night the dreadful deed was committed.
“They didn’t get anything out of me, Becky,” said the old lady; “I didn’t hear anything, Becky—eh? I told them as much as I heard—nothing—eh, Becky?”
There was something odd in the old lady’s manner, and I felt convinced she knew more than she said. The old lady is spasmodic, and speaks very slowly, gasping at each word, with a long pause between.
“Of course,” I said, with a knowing look, “you didn’t hear anything, so you couldn’t tell them anything! I should have done just the same.”
“Would you, Becky? Would you—eh?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “I wouldn’t run the chance of being taken from my comfortable bed to appear in a police court, and catch my death of cold, and have everybody staring and pointing at me.”
“You’re a clever girl, Becky,” said Mrs. Bailey, “a clever girl—eh? And I’m a clever old woman—eh? Very good—very good! Catch my death of cold, indeed! So I should—eh?” Then suddenly, “Becky, can you keep a secret—eh?”