"Who is Miss Pell?"
"She's one as was, sir, but now—ain't," answered Mrs. Snummitt and, nodding gloomily, she took down the brandy in three separate and distinct gulps, closed her eyes, sighed, and nodded her poke bonnet more gloomily than before. "Little Miss Pell, sir, 'ad a attic three doors down, sir, and pore little Miss Pell 'as been and gone and—done it! Which do it I knowed she would."
"Done what?" inquired Barnabas.
"Five long year come shine, come rain, I've knowed pore Miss Pell, and though small, a real lady she were, but lonesome. Last night as ever was, she met me on the stairs, and by the same token I 'ad a scrubbing-brush in one 'and and a bucket in the other, me 'aving been charing for the first floor front, a 'andsome gent with whiskers like a lord, and 'oh, Mrs. Snummitt!' she sez and all of a twitter she was too, 'dear Mrs. Snummitt,' sez she, 'I'm a-going away on a journey,' she sez, 'but before I go,' she sez, 'I should like to kiss you good-by, me being so lonesome,' she sez. Which kiss me she did, sir, and likewise wep' a couple o' big tears over me, pore soul, and then, run away into 'er dark little attic and locked 'erself in, and—done it!"
"What—what did she do?"
"'Ung 'erself in the cupboard, sir. Kissed me only last night she did and wep' over me, and now—cold and stiff, pore soul?"
"But why did she do it?" cried Barnabas, aghast.
"Well, there was the lonesomeness and—well, she 'adn't eat anything for two days it seems, and—"
"You mean that she was hungry—starving?"
"Generally, sir. But things was worse lately on account of 'er heyes getting weak. 'Mrs. Snummitt,' she used to say, 'my heyes is getting worse and worse,' she'd say, 'but I shall work as long as I can see the stitches, and then, Mrs. Snummitt, I must try a change o' scene,' she used to say with a little shiver like. And I used to wonder where she'd go, but—I know now, and—well—the Bow Street Runners 'as just gone up to cut the pore soul down."