“Yes,” replied Mr Morpeth, “it certainly would, if, when you had run round to the front of the house, you had not found the housekeeper, and had been told instead that she had had to hurry off to her master, who had arrived unexpectedly—and if you had had to explain all to Mrs Greville, and beg her not to rouse an alarm and so on—all this in deference to the special commands of a certain young lady, whom I mistakenly imagined I was trying to serve.”
Mary felt rather ashamed of herself.
“Did you not find the housekeeper after all?” she inquired, meekly.
“Yes, Mrs Greville managed it, but I would not let her go back through the house to let you out, as I knew you would so dislike possibly meeting that fellow—what’s his name?—the man himself, I mean, whom you hate so. So I got a key; look what a queer one,” holding out a quaint looking object, which Mary could, however, hardly distinguish, till she took it in her own hands, “it opens the spring door from the outside, you see.”
“But did you see Mr Cheviott?” asked Mary.
“Oh, no! he stopped at his bailiff’s, or somewhere, and sent on his groom to say he had come back about some business, and would stay all night. Then off flies Mrs Silver, or whatever her name is—and nobody thinks any more of us two unfortunate wretches.”
“Yes, I see. I understand it all now,” said Mary, “and—”
“You do, but I don’t,” interrupted Mr Morpeth. “I want to know how you got out of the room. You could never have found the spring, after all, and in the dark too.”
Mary did not answer.
“Did you?” persisted her companion. “Come now, Miss Western, I do think I deserve a civil answer.”