"Powder, and frills, and ruffles at your wrists, Sergeant——"
"And talkin' o' fly-b'-nights, mam, brings me to a question I wish to ax you and meant to ax you afore."
"A—a question, Sergeant?" she repeated faintly, beginning to trace out a pattern on the path with the toe of her neat shoe.
"As I want you to answer prompt, mam, aye or no."
"Very well, Sergeant," said she, fainter than before. "I'm listening."
"D'ye sleep well o' nights, mam?"
Mrs. Agatha started, glanced up swiftly and, for no apparent reason, blushed very red under the Sergeant's direct gaze.
"Lud, Sergeant Zebedee, what's that to do with it—I mean——"
"Everything, mam!"
"And why shouldn't I sleep? I've no bad conscience to wake me, thank God."