“Yes, miss; and we thought you ought to hear.”
“Hush!—Oh, Woodham, these two have come back with a silly tale that—”
Sarah Woodham laid a thin hand upon her arm.
“That—have you heard? Oh, how horrible! But what absurd nonsense. There, go away, all of you. It is too dreadful to talk about, and you must let it die a natural death.”
“But they say, miss, that the police will take Mr Christopher Lisle, and that he will be hung for murder,” whispered the cook in awe-stricken tones; “and if Miss Claude should hear that—Oh!”
Claude had quietly opened the drawing-room door and stepped out into the hall, coming in search of her cousin, the low whispering without having attracted her attention.
“You heard what I said,” cried Mary, quickly. “Why don’t you go?”
“Stop!” said Claude, in a strangely altered voice.
“No, no, Claude, dear,” said Mary, crossing to her. “It is nothing you need listen to. Only a wretched tattling from down on the beach.”
“I know what they said,” replied Claude, hoarsely. “Sarah Woodham, have you heard this—this dreadful charge?”