“What’s wrong?” whispered Alderman Espicier to his neighbour. “Pellet’s bank gone to the bad?”
“Writ, more likely,” said the other, charitably; and then they made a few pleasant comments upon the wine they were drinking, calculated its cost per dozen, wondered whether the epergne and ice-pails were silver or electro, but hardly liked to seek for the hall-marks, in case the host should return and find them so engaged. In short, during Richard Pellet’s absence, they looked upon everything in a truly commercial spirit, that might not have been quite agreeable to their host had he been aware of the proceedings.
Meanwhile, taking up a chamber candlestick, Richard Pellet had hurried into the library, where he found Mrs Walls, the woman from the Borton Street house—Ellen’s gaoler.
“Now!” he harshly exclaimed, “what is it?”
“Gone!” said the woman, abruptly.
“Who—what—Ellen?” stammered Richard, for he had clung to the doubt. “How?—when?”
“Do you want all that answered at once?” said the woman, in a cool insolent tone—the voice of one who might have taken her last cheque from her employer, or felt herself safe of her position.
“There! speak out; I’m busy—company,” exclaimed Richard, excitedly.
“Well,” said the woman, “I’ve nothing more to tell you, only that she is gone, and I don’t know how she managed it. Of course, my responsibility was at an end after the notice I had given you, and I considered that she was only staying to oblige you. But I never thought she would slip away, or I’d have watched her. P’raps she’s off again to see the little one—she has been talking to herself about it a good deal lately.”
“And you never watched her!” hissed Richard, standing with knitted brows and clenched fists before the woman.