“Merciful Heaven!” she breathed, horror in her eyes. “I knew it—it’s Mr. Simpson! Oh, how can I bear it, how can I bear it!”
And she clutched the banister for support.
Fortunately, however, the girl knew better than that, even in her fright, and said so at once.
“No, no, it ain’t Mr. Simpson!” she said pityingly, patting her mistress’ heaving shoulder. “This man’s got big feet, Mrs. Simpson. His shoes ain’ a bit like your husband’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain sure, ma’am.”
“Thank Heaven!” the frightened woman cried fervently. “It’s terrible enough, though, if what you say is true. Call the neighbors, get some man here as quick as you can. I’ll dress while you’re gone.”
The maid ran downstairs on the new errand, and Mrs. Simpson returned to her bedroom. Five minutes later, she left the house by the rear door, wrapped in a long kimono.
The servant’s errand had already borne fruit, for, although the girl herself was not in sight, a man in his shirt sleeves and with dangling suspenders was just climbing over the side fence.