“What trick, sir?” asked Monk, twitching a good-for-nothing leaf off a budding geranium.
“What trick! As if there were more tricks than one played! I mean dressing yourself up like a dead man, and frightening Phœbe.”
“I have too much to do with my work, Mr. Todhetley, to find time to play tricks. I took no holiday at all yesterday, day or night, but was about my business till I went to bed. They were saying out here this morning that the Squire thought you had done it.”
“Don’t you be insolent, Monk. That won’t answer with me.”
“Well, sir, it is not pleasant to be accused point-blank of a crime, as you’ve just accused me. I know nothing at all about the matter. ’Twasn’t me. I had no grudge against Phœbe, that I should harm her.”
Tod was satisfied; I was not. He never once looked in either of our faces as he was speaking. We leaped the wire-fence and went across to Goody Picker’s, bursting into her kitchen without ceremony.
“I say, Mrs. Picker, we can’t find out anything about that business last night,” began Tod.
“And you never will, gentlemen, as is my opinion,” returned Mrs. Picker, getting up in a bustle and dusting two wooden chairs. “Whoever did that, have took himself off for a bit; never doubt it. ’Twas some one o’ them village lads.”
“We have been wondering whether it was Roger Monk.”
“Lawk-a-mercy!” cried she, dropping a basin on the brick floor. And if ever I saw a woman change colour, she did.