“Have ye heard, Miss—Ma’am,” she began incoherently. “Mr. Paul, God rest his soul, has left me and Charles one thousand dollars each.”
“Is that so? I congratulate you, Martha.” Miriam shifted her hand bag and held it more firmly against her. There was an intangible something about Martha which invited distrust. “Mr. Abbott was most generous.”
“Yes Miss—Ma’am; he had call to be,” Martha’s voice had assumed its old complaining whine. “Us took good care of him. I don’t mind telling you Miss—Ma’am, that my husband ain’t quite satisfied. He wants more.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.” Martha’s grievances were displacing her first feeling of elation at the, to her, large sum of money. “Charles, he’s mad, clean through. He says he’s goin’ to Sheriff Trenholm.”
“And why to the Sheriff?” questioned Miriam in surprise.
“Oh, he’s kinder good at giving advice—when ye got something to tell him.” Martha’s slow, expressive wink annoyed Miriam and without paying further attention to the woman, she went through the sunparlor and outside the house.
Martha, in no wise disturbed by Miriam’s cool reception of her confidences, went slowly on with her work, her mental process of “thinking” betrayed by her facial contortions.
The young deputy was just starting his engine when Miriam appeared at the side of his car.
“Can you tell me where I will find Sheriff Trenholm?” she asked.