“There was,” Bess answered, “but there isn’t. I quarrelled with the serving-lass this afternoon, and at sunset to-day she was to go. If she comes back to-morrow I’ll send her packing with a flea in her ear!”
“But who——”
“Gave me leave to send her?” defiantly. “He did.”
Thistlewood smiled.
“And the wife?” he asked. “What’ll she say?”
“Say? She’d not say boh to a goose if it hissed at her!” Bess answered contemptuously. “She’s a pale, fat caterpillar, afraid of her own shadow! She’ll whine a bit, for she don’t love me—thinks I’ll poison her some fine day for the sake of her man. But she’s upstairs and there’s no one, but nor ben, to hear her whine; and at daybreak I’ll be there, tending her. Isn’t it the natural thing,” and she smiled darkly, “with this the nearest house?”
“Curse me, but you’re a clever lass!” Giles cried. And even Thistlewood seemed to feel no pity for the poor woman, left helpless with her babe. “I don’t know,” the ruffian continued, “that I’m not almost afraid of you myself!”
“And you think that house will not be searched?”
“Why should it be searched?” Bess answered. “Tyson’s well known. And if they do search it,” she continued confidently, “there’s a place—it’s not of the brightest, but it’ll do, and you must lie there days—that they’ll not find if they search till Doomsday!”
Walterson alone eyed her gloomily.