"You have not heard from her since?" asked Paul, inquisitively.
"Sir, you may burn me or prison me or put me in pillaries," said Mrs. Tawsey, "but deceive you I won't. Me an' Tilly not bein' of 'appy matchin' don't correspond. We're Londing both," exclaimed Deborah, "father 'avin' bin a 'awker, but why she went to the country, or why I stopped in Gwynne Street, no one knows. And may I arsk, Mr. Beecot, why you arsk of that place?"
"Your late master came from Christchurch, Mrs. Tawsey. Did you never hear him mention it?"
"That I never did, for close he was, Mr. Beecot, say what you like. I never knowed but what he'd pawned and sold them bookses all his blessed life, for all the talkin' he did. If I'd ha' knowd," added Deborah, lifting her red finger, "as he'd bin maried afore and intended to cast out my lovely queen, I'd ha' strangled him myself."
"He had no intention of casting out Sylvia," said Paul, musingly; "he certainly left the money to her."
"Then why 'ave that other got it?"
"Sylvia's name wasn't mentioned, and Miss Krill is legally entitled as the legitimate daughter."
"Call her what you like, she's a cat as her mother is afore her," said Mrs. Tawsey, indignantly, "and not young at that. Thirty and over, as I'm a livin' woman."
"Oh, I don't think Miss Krill is as old as that."
"Being a man you wouldn't, sir, men bein' blind to wrinklings and paint. But paint she do, the hussey, and young she ain't. Over thirty—if I die for the sayin' of it."