"I think I heard of that. But Lady Rachel Sandal committed suicide."
Matilda rubbed her nose, after the Deborah fashion. "Well, sir, my ladies were never sure which it was, and, of course, it was before my time considerable, being more nor twenty year back. But the man as did it is dead, and lef' my ladies his money, as he oughter. An' Miss Maud's a-goin' to marry a real gent"—Matilda glanced at the photograph—"I allays said he wos a gent, bein' so 'aughty like, and wearing evening dress at meals, late."
"Was he ever down here, this gentleman?"
"He's been comin' and goin' fur months, and Miss Maud loves 'im somethin' cruel. But they'll marry now an' be 'appy."
"I suppose your ladies sometimes went to see this gent in town?"
"Meanin' Mr. Hay," said Matilda, artlessly. "Well, sir, they did, one at a time and then together. Missis would go and miss would foller, an' miss an' missus together would take their joy of the Towers an' shops and Madame Tusord's and sich like, Mr. Hay allays lookin' after 'em."
"Did they ever visit Mr. Hay in July?"
"No, they didn't," snapped Matilda, with a change of tone which did not escape Hurd; "and I don't know, sir, why you arsk them questions."
"My good woman, I ask no questions. If I do, you need not reply. Let us change the subject. My sister tells me you make good curries in this hotel."