Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early hours, and the next morning did not venture out until I had heard Miss Sellars, who appeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the top of the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was going to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, I told her the reason why.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Peedles, “I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn't for me to interfere, but I couldn't help seeing you were making a fool of yourself. I only hope you'll get clear off, and you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you.”
“You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?” I asked.
“My dear,” replied Mrs. Peedles, “it's a difficult world to live in—leastways, that's been my experience of it.”
I had just completed my packing—it had not taken me long—when I heard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me the up-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscripts under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes. These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon the nearest chair.
“Put them in your box, my dear,” said Mrs. Peedles. “They'll come in useful to you later on.”
I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays in manuscript-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one I noticed was “The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;” the second, “The Female Highwayman.”
“Everybody's forgotten 'em,” explained Mrs. Peedles, “but there's some good stuff in all of them.”
“But what am I to do with them?” I enquired.
“Just whatever you like, my dear,” explained Mrs. Peedles. “It's quite safe. They're all of 'em dead, the authors of 'em. I've picked 'em out most carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from the other. With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good plays out of that little lot when your time comes.”