"The—the poor young lady's maid!" said the laundress, with a sudden snivel.
"I'll take it to her room," Wilkins said. "Where will that be, and where will I find the young woman herself?"
The under-laundress dried her eyes on one corner of her apron.
"I dunno about Felice," she said uncertainly. "Mebbe Mr. Bates—oh, here comes Mr. Bates now."
Round, red, highly perturbed, the Dalton butler bustled into the laundry and looked Wilkins up and down.
"Trunk for the master?" he asked crisply.
"For Felice, the young lady's maid, as I understand," Wilkins said quietly. "Where shall I find her? It's for herself."
His calm and superior smile warned Bates not to question an affair that could not possibly concern him—yet the warning missed Bates somehow. He looked sharply at Wilkins and laughed.
"You'll not find her here!" said he.
"I mean Felice, the maid of——"