The landlady found her voice.
“He means,” she said bluntly, “that he did not sleep in his bed last night.”
“Mr. Stewart?”
“The gentleman who came with you.”
“Oh, but,” Henrietta cried, “you must be jesting?” She would not, she could not, give way to the doubt that assailed her.
“It is no jest,” Bishop answered gravely, and with something like pity in his voice. For the girl looked very fair and very young, and wore her dignity prettily. “It is no jest, miss, believe me. But perhaps we could read the riddle—we should know more, at any rate—if you were to tell us from what part you came yesterday.”
But she had her wits about her, and she was not going to tell them that! No, no! Moreover, on the instant she had a thought—that this was no jest, but a trick, a cruel, cowardly trick, to draw from her the knowledge which they wanted, and which she must not give! Beyond doubt that was it; she snatched thankfully at the notion. This odious woman, taking advantage of Stewart’s momentary absence, had called in the man, and thought to bully her, a young girl in a strange place, out of the information which she had wished to get the night before.
The impertinents! But she would be a match for them.
“That is my affair,” she said.
“But——”