“Then who was it that Martha heard downstairs, that she went down a second time?”
“Maybe she didn’t hear anybody. Maybe she went down to see what she could pick up herself——”
“Steal, do you mean? Oh, for shame! To accuse a poor, dead girl!”
Mrs Fletcher looked ashamed.
“I oughtn’t to,—I s’pose. But, Miss, what else is there to think? I well know how this house is locked up of nights; nobody from outside could get in. The other servants are as honest as the day, and though I’ve no real reason to suspect Martha, yet there doesn’t seem to be any other way to look,—does there, now?”
“Some way may turn up,” said Zizi. “Tell me more about Betty,—Miss Varian.”
“I can’t tell you from having known her, for I never saw the girl, but since I’ve been taking care of Mrs Varian there’s little I don’t know about the whole family. She’s nervous, you know, and so she talks incessantly, when we’re alone.”
“Nothing, though, to cast any light on Miss Varian’s disappearance?”
“Oh, no; nothing but sort of reminiscences about her husband and how good he was to her, and how she grieves for him,—and for her child. Poor woman,—it’s fearful to hear her.”
“It must be,” said Zizi, sympathetically; “my heart bleeds for that poor tortured soul.”