Sarah pondered. "Well, cook and James, it's this way," she said, with some hesitation. "This murder of old Sir Simon—" Jerry pricked up his ears at this and looked more innocent than ever.
"Go on," said the cook, wondering why Sarah stopped.
"They said his grandson done it."
"And that I'll never believe," cried James, pounding the table. "A noble young gentleman Mr. Bernard, and many a half-crown he's given me. He never did it, and even if he did, he's dead and gone."
Sarah drew back from the table. "I really forgot that," she whimpered. "It must have been his ghost," and she threw her apron over her head.
"What's that, Sarah? A ghost! There's no such thing. Whose ghost?"
"Mr. Bernard's," said Sarah, looking scared, as she removed her apron. "Oh, to think I should have lived to see a ghost. Yes, you may all look, but that tramp, ragged and torn, was Mr. Gore. Don't I know him as well as I know myself?"
"Sarah," said James, while the cook turned pale and Jerry listened more eagerly than ever, "you rave in a crazy way."
"Oh, well, there's no knowing," cried Sarah, hysterically, "but the tramp was Mr. Gore, and I forgot he was dead. His ghost—it must have been his ghost. No wonder Jane wanted to fly at him."
"Mr. Bernard's ghost wanting to see Miss Alice!" said cook. "Get along with you, Sarah! He must be alive. I don't believe all the papers say. Perhaps he wasn't drowned after all."