The little woman's eyes began to glitter with ominous fire. "Now don't you be nasty, sir. It's all your fault."
"What is all my fault?"
"Jeremiah's goings on. Why did you bring that horrid nigger girl, as isn't respectable, to this place, with her dirty heathen ways? I thought it was Zara Lovell," lamented Mrs. Slade, "as he was after. But she's dead, they tell me--killed in mistake for your heathen. But it's not Zara, it never was her--though I've called her all the names I could lay my tongue to." Mrs. Slade's voice jumped an octave and she shook with rage. "It's your Bithiah!"
"What do you mean?" cried the minister, now really angry. "Bithiah is engaged to marry Finland. Do you dare to----"
"Oh, I know my own knowing, sir," interrupted Mrs. Slade, tossing her head. "A nice wife Mr. Finland will get. She carries on with my Jeremiah. Oh yes, she does! I dare say she ran away first, and he went up to London to meet her."
"Slade went to London at my request, on my business."
"I dare say. You're in the plot, too. You want Jeremiah to run away with that girl. But he shan't--he shan't! I'll pull her hair out!"
Johnson could not forbear a smile. The idea of coupling Tera with the lanky red-haired policeman seemed too absurd. "Really, Mrs. Slade," he exclaimed, with as much composure as he could command, "you're quite wrong. Bithiah does not know your---- Ah!" the preacher jumped, "what is that?"
Mrs. Slade had stronger nerves, and did not jump, but she also turned towards the window. "It's one of them dratted gipsies," said she, in an acidulated voice. "Pharaoh Lee, what do you mean by poking your nose into private business?"
"May I come in, rye?" said he--for it was indeed Pharaoh who stood in the window--Pharaoh, haggard and fierce-looking. "I want to speak to you--and to her."