“Nor do I, Mary dear. In fact, I was broad awake all last night. I never closed my eyes. Perhaps I drank too much coffee after dinner, or, perhaps, it was the moon.”
“There now!” The rocking became triumphant. “That proves it. Sara, it must'a' been.”
“What else, Mary? What are the other little things?”
“Why, ma'am, it seems foolish to mention 'em, but I just think I kinder ought.”
“Indeed you ought, Mary.”
“I had to go down to the kitchen late last Friday night. Mrs. Brane could n't sleep, and I thought I'd give her a glass of warm milk same as I ust to give my poor lamb. Well, miss, I found the kitchen door locked; the one at the foot of the back stairs, not the one that goes outdoors, which nacherly would be fastened at night. The key was n't on my side of the door, so it stands to reason't was locked on the kitchen side, and Sara and Henry must'a' been in that kitchen, though it was dark, not a glimmer under the door or through the keyhole, and not a sound—or else they'd gone out the back way. Why should Sara lock her kitchen door and go round the other way? Don't it seem a bit odd to you, ma'am? And when I axed her the next mornin', she kinder snarled like and told me to mind my own business, that the kitchen door was her affair, and that if I valued my soul I'd best keep to my bed nights in this house.”
We were silent for a moment while I digested this sinister injunction, and the rocker “registered” the indignation of a respectable Englishwoman.
“Anything else, Mary?” I asked at last.
Mary stopped rocking. She folded her hands on her work and her round eyes took on a doubting, puzzled look.
“Yes, ma'am. One other thing. And maybe it means naught, and, maybe, it means a lot. Deviltry it must be of some kind, I says, or else mere foolishness.” She paused, and I saw her face pucker tearfully. “You know how I did love that pitiful little Robbie, miss?”