"Murdered," said the girl, plunging the herbs into the saucepan of water.
A shudder took Madame Guise from head to foot. Molly looked round at her: she was like one seized with ague.
"I am cold and fatigued with my long journey," she murmured, seeking to afford some plausible excuse to the round-eyed girl. "And it always startles one to hear talk of murder."
"So it do, mum," acquiesced Molly. "I dun'no which is worst to hear tell on; that or ghosts."
"But--this Friar's Keep that you talk of, Mollee--it may be that he fell from it by accident into the sea."
"Couldn't," shortly corrected Molly. "There ain't no way to fall--no opening. They be biling up beautiful, mum."
"And--was he never--never seen again since that night?" pursued Madame Guise, casting mechanically a glance on the steaming saucepan.
"Never seen nor heard on," protested Molly emphatically. "His clothes and his portmanteau and all his other things have stayed on here; but he has never come back to claim 'em."
Madame Guise put her hands on her pallid face, as if to hide the terror there. Molly, her work done, and about to depart, was sweeping the bits of stalks and herbs from the table into her clean check apron.
"Does the voisinage know all this?" asked Madame Guise, looking up. "Is it talked of openly? May I speak of it to monsieur and madame en bas--to the host and hostess, I would say?"