Then Mrs. Whittaker called the servants in one by one, paid their wages, told them to look after Miss Julia, and said that she was going to Paris to join the master for a few days.
“Which it’s very funny,” remarked the cook to Margaret, a few minutes after Mrs. Whittaker and her small portmanteau had gone off in a cab to the station, “which it’s very funny. Missus have had no letter from master since the day after he went away, when she had a post-card which I took in myself and likewise read, saying, ‘Arrived safe. Hope all well at home. Writing later.’ Which he never have written later. There was no telegram for missus to-day?”
“No,” said Margaret, “there’s no telegram come to this house to-day.”
“Then, you know, missus might have been rung up on the telephone from the office.”
“She might, but I’ve not heard her on the telephone all day, and I’ve not heard the telephone go once. Anyway, missus she have gone to Paris to join master, and I’m sure, poor lady, I hope she won’t find a pretty to-do when she gets there.”
It was barely half an hour later when Maudie Marksby’s motor brougham came spinning up to the door of the house opposite.
“There’s Mrs. Marksby’s carriage,” said Margaret, craning her head over the muslin blinds that shrouded the doings of the kitchen from the passers-by. “I wonder if missus told her she was going to Paris. Oh, here she comes.”
Maudie herself, with her gait of swimming importance, came mincing across the road. Margaret went down to the outer porch to meet her.
“Is my mother in, Margaret?”
“Lor’! Mrs. Marksby, missus have gone away!”