“Of course she would,” chimed in Mrs. Staynes.
“Thank you,” said Freda.
“I think,” said the Vicar, rising and moving towards the door, “that I’ll go upstairs and just look upon the poor Captain’s face again. I feel it my duty to. I wish I could have felt happier about him, but I’m sorry to say he was always deaf to the exhortations of religion.”
“I’m afraid you can’t see him,” said Freda, quietly.
She had had particular injunctions on this point from Crispin, who had foreseen that the Vicar would think it his duty to satisfy his curiosity. As Mr. Staynes persisted, brushing her angrily out of his way, Freda followed him upstairs, and had to point out the door of the death-chamber. The Vicar tried to open it, but it was locked; Freda let him push and shake in vain.
“Can you open it for me, girl?” he was at last constrained to ask.
“I think I could, but I have been told not to. I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”
“And pray who is it that has more authority with you than the Vicar of the parish?” asked Mr. Staynes when, finding indignation and expostulation useless, he had to accompany her downstairs.
“Crispin Bean,” she answered simply.
“What!” cried the Vicar, almost staggering back. “That drunken ruffian Bean! A disgrace to the neighbourhood! Why, it was enough to keep Christian people away from this house that such a scoundrel was ever allowed about it.”