“I can rely on you to say nothing to anybody?”
“Most undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly.”
“Does anybody know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?” inquired Webster, entering the kitchen. “Don’t all speak at once! S. Marlowe. Ever heard of him?”
He paused for a reply, but nobody had any information to impart.
“Because there’s something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with notes for him to the bottom of lanes.”
“And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!” said the scullery-maid, shocked. “The way they go on. Chronic!” said the scullery-maid.
“Don’t you go getting alarmed! And don’t you,” added Webster, “go shoving your oar in when your social superiors are talking! I’ve had to speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here.”
He indicated the cook with a respectful gesture.
“Yes, here’s the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about half a moment we could ... but no, perhaps it’s wiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don’t need to unstick the envelope to know what’s inside here. It’s the raspberry, ma’am, or I’ve lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold and proud-looking she was! I don’t know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that’s going to give it him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn’t Montagu Webster!”
“Well!” said Mrs. Withers, comfortably, pausing for a moment from her labours. “Think of that!”