“Nonsense, Sue!” said her husband. “The boy disobeyed orders; that’s mutiny, and Mr. Greatorex wouldn’t override his manager. Martin won’t tell what he was fighting about, but says he isn’t ashamed of it. There’s a mystery somewhere, and I don’t like it. He must look for another job, and I hope he’ll get one.”
Late that night, when Dick Gollop was out on his round as constable, and Lucy had gone to bed, Susan was stitching a rent in one of Mounseer’s shirts.
“There! That’s done at last,” she said. “ ’Tis time Mounseer had a new shirt, I’m thinking. Deary me! I’m tired out after working all this broiling hot day, and I’m sure I don’t want to climb those stairs.”
“Let me take it up,” said Martin. “I’ll save your legs.”
“That’s kind of you. I promised the old gentleman he should have it to-night, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
Martin took the shirt and left the room. The staircase was very dark, and he walked up slowly, feeling his way along the wall.
When he was about half-way up he heard a creaking on the landing above, opposite the Frenchman’s door. He halted, and, supposing that Mounseer himself had come out of his room to ask for his shirt, he was on the point of calling to him when he caught the sound of hurried but soft footfalls on the stairs higher up, and then of a door gently closed.
He went on again, reached Mounseer’s door, and knocked. At first there was no answer; but after knocking a second time he heard the sound of flint and steel in the room within, then a voice asking who was there, and at last a fumbling with the bolt.
“Ah! It is you, my young friend, with my shirt,” said the old gentleman, opening the door. “I had fallen asleep, and had to light my candle.”
“I thought I heard you on the stairs, sir,” said Martin.