“Ah, you always sided with the boy, Mrs Millett,” said Maria; “but mark my words, some of these mornings we shall get up and find that he has let burglars into the house, and Master and Miss Helen will be robbed and murdered in their beds.”
“Maria, you’re a goose,” said the old housekeeper. “Don’t talk such rubbish.”
“Ah, you may call it rubbish, Mrs Millett, but if you’d seen that boy just now stealing—”
“Stealing, Maria?”
“Yes ’m, stealing into Master’s study like a thief in the night—and after no good, I’ll be bound,—you wouldn’t be so ready to take his part.”
“Gone in to write his lessons,” said Mrs Millett. “There, you go and get about your work.”
Maria snorted, stuck out her chin, and left the kitchen.
“Yes, she may talk, but I say he’s after no good,” muttered the housemaid; “and I’m going to see what he’s about, or my name ain’t what it is.”
Meanwhile Dexter was very busy in the study, but in a furtive way writing the following letter in a bold, clear hand, which was, however, rather shaky in the loops of the letters, while the capitals had an inclination to be independent, and to hang away from the small letters of the various words:—
Sir,