The young man grew as red as the brick wall against which he was leaning; but Mrs. Blexey, seeing this sign of anger, went on hastily. "I don't mean boldness, my lord; indeed, I don't. But Miss Mona does need a friend sadly, my lord, and she tells me that you are one."
"I am," said Prelice firmly, and flushing again, "and I am glad that she spoke thus of me. But about this Madame Marie Eppingrave?"
"I never liked her, my lord. An oily flatterer she was, with a gimblet eye and a buttery tongue. She was always trying to get the better of Sir Oliver, and gave him that nasty thing that made the smoke."
Prelice naturally looked startled. "Why, Sir Oliver brought the herb from Easter Island himself—at least I fancy he did."
"I don't, my lord; and what's more, he didn't. I went into the library to ask master what he'd have for dinner, and Madame Eppingrave—if that is her name, the old bag-o'-rags—was showing master a lot of dry stems and purple leaves, and talking about trances and suchlike rubbish. That was just a week before Sir Oliver's death."
"What do you make of that, Mrs. Blexey?" asked Prelice thoughtfully.
"I don't make anything of it, sir. But it was strange that the nasty smoky weeds she gave master should bring about his death."
"Madame Marie had no reason to wish Sir Oliver dead?"
"Oh no, my lord. Why, she lost a good friend in him, and often must have desired him to be alive and kicking. All the same, sir, she gave him them withered leaves, and through them master came by his end."
Prelice nodded absently. He required time to think over the matter, and turned away to be alone. Then a thought struck him, and he returned to the housekeeper. "What about the will?" he demanded.