"I can--I can--exonerate--exonerate myself," stuttered Mrs. Beatson, her dry lips scarcely able to form the words.
"You had better do so to us," advised Carrington agreeably.
"And if I don't?" she snarled, turning on him.
"Then Inspector Lawson shall examine you."
"What do I care when I know that I am innocent?"
"Well,"--Carrington shrugged his shoulders--"it's your own affair. Ring the bell, Hendle, and send one of the servants down for Kensit."
"No, don't!" cried Mrs. Beatson, when she saw her master walk toward the fireplace to touch the ivory button. "I can explain."
Hendle nodded and returned to his seat, while Carrington replaced the will in his pocket and waited for the confession. Mrs. Beatson wiped her face and glared at the two like a tigress at bay. Only the knowledge that she was driven into a corner made her speak out. "I overheard your conversation with Mr. Leigh, sir," she said to her master and ignoring Carrington. "Oh, I didn't mean to, you know. I only listened as I thought you intended to discharge me when you married Miss Mallien, and fancied you might explain yourself on that point to the vicar."
"I understand. But why did you report the conversation to my cousin?"
Mrs. Beatson looked down sullenly. "You don't know what it is to be poor," she muttered irrelevantly. "I am born a lady, and through the fault of a spendthrift husband I am reduced to act as your housekeeper. It is only natural that I should try and improve my position, so when I learned about a will which would give your property to Mr. Mallien, I thought it wise to make money by speaking about it to him."