"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?" enquired
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 ear 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!"