“Police, eh?” he muttered, as he went on. “I was ’bliged to take it away twissened up into a rag, and if it had been washed somebody would have known. Ah, well, I know what to do wi’ that.”
So the old man went straight home, and fastened the door, before taking the soiled and crumpled surplice from his oak chest; and then carefully picking it to pieces and rolling it up.
“My Dally shall wash that, first time she comes, and nobody’ll know it’s a surplus now. She might ha’ asked her old gran’fa to have a cup o’ tea.”
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.
At Candlish Hall.
“My Dally” had been otherwise employed, for a messenger had come over from the Hall to see the curate; and at the time her grandfather was departing, Dally was cross-examining the good-tempered, loutish youth respecting his master, and getting out of him all she could glean.
“Job is having it this morning,” said Salis, for he heard a familiar step in the passage, as soon as the sexton had gone. “What now, Dally? No more bad news?”
“Bad news, sir?” said the girl, speaking to her master, and gazing at Leo, who did not look up. “I don’t think so, sir. It’s the young man from Candlish Hall, sir, to see you partikler.”