The sudden question--as Jelly acknowledged to herself afterwards--made her creep all over. For once in her life she was dumb.
"I heard all you said, Jelly, happening to be standing accidentally at the door. What was it that was dropped on Mrs. Gass's carpet the night of my brother's illness?"
"It--was--a receipt for making plum-pudding, sir," stammered Jelly, turning a little white.
"I think not, Jelly," replied Richard North, gazing into her eyes with quiet firmness. "You spoke of a copy of an anonymous letter; and I am sure, by your tone, you were then speaking the truth. As I have overheard so much, you must give me a further explanation."
"I'd have spent a pound out of my pocket, rather than this should have happened," cried Jelly, with much ardour.
"You need not fear to tell me. I am no tattler, as you know."
Had there been only the ghost of a chance to stand out against the command, Jelly would have caught at it. But there was none. She disclosed what she knew: more than she need have done. Warming with her subject, when the narrative had fairly set in--as it was in Jelly's gossiping nature to warm--she also told of the interview she had been a partial witness to between Mrs. Cumberland and the doctor, and the words she had overheard.
Richard North looked grave--startled. He said very little: only cautioned Jelly never to speak of the subject again to other people.
"I suppose you will be asking Mrs. Gass about it, sir," cried Jelly, as he was turning to leave.
"I shall. And should be thankful to hear from her that it really was nothing more than a receipt for plum-pudding, Jelly."