No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook seemed to consider her proposition off.
“It’s no business of our’n, cook,” said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall.
The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season’s pocket.
“There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then,” whispered cook.
“That’s so, under the stairkiss window,” said the gardener.
“Under the stairkiss window!” said the housemaid. “My?”
Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,
“But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?” said cook excitedly.
“Oh, it’s easy enough to any one as knows what he’s about,” said the gardener. “Off course he’d drop down.”
“And no bars to the window,” exclaimed cook indignantly. “Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night.”