“What do you know about that, my good woman?”
Her good woman looked, saw a mournful-looking and very wet donkey and shook her head.
“Nothing ’m,” she said primly. “But what I want to know is, where is Mr. Simpkins? I thought the Vicar might advise me what to do, but as he’s not in, ’m, p’raps I’d better go to the police straight.”
The Outlaws, who felt that with the advent of Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper the plot was thickening, and who were consumed with curiosity as to why Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper had followed the metamorphosed Mr. Simpkins, crept up to the Vicarage door and listened. The mention of “police” made them rather uncomfortable. The Vicar’s wife saw them and frowned.
The Vicar’s wife was a good Christian woman, but she could never learn to like the Outlaws.
“Go away, little boys,” she said tartly, “how dare you come up to the door listening to conversation that is not meant for you? Go away at once. Or, wait one minute.... Have any of you seen Mr. Simpkins this afternoon?”
It was Joan who answered. She pointed across the lawn to Maria who was now placidly nibbling the Vicar’s hedge and said:
“That’s Mr. Simpkins.”
******
There was a moment’s tense silence. Then the Vicar’s wife said sternly: