Miss Bostal, who had uttered a little shrill scream of fright on the first appearance of the stranger, now recovered herself and gave a little gasp of acquiescence.
“Oh, yes, I know—I’ve heard. You are the—Yes, come in.”
He entered, waited while she shut the door, and then followed, by her direction, not into the kitchen, but to a cold, dark room on the right, which smelt as if it were little used. Miss Bostal wisely kept her shawl wrapped tightly round her, and politely begged him to take a seat, while she lit one of the two candles which stood on the mantelpiece. The detective gave one comprehensive look around the room, and quite understood why the lady preferred to spend her time in the kitchen, where it was, at least, warm.
“And now,” asked the lady, as she seated herself on a prim, stiff-backed chair covered with faded needle-work, “what is it you want to ask me?”
“Well, ma’am,” said the detective, who sat on the edge of his chair, and felt surprise at the amount of dignity there was about the little prim, shabby lady, “it’s just this: I want to know if any little accident happened to a young lady who spent the morning with you—Miss Claris?”
He saw his breath and hers on the cold air of the little room, and thought it was much warmer in the fields outside. The lady was evidently astonished at the question.
“Little accident?” she repeated. “Not that I remember.”
“Was she doing any sort of work for you, ma’am? She said something about ironing, I think.”
“She didn’t do any ironing,” answered the lady, promptly, “but I did.”
“She told me she was ironing and burned her hand.”