"Who was it?" I asked when I had come to the end.
"Mrs. Monson says it's honly mice," she said, as if repeating a learned lesson.
"Mice!" I exclaimed; "it's nothing of the sort. Someone was feeling about outside my door. Who was it? Is the son in the house?"
Her whole manner changed suddenly, and she became earnest instead of evasive. She seemed anxious to tell the truth.
"Oh, no, sir; there's no one in the house at all but you and me and the child, and there couldn't have been nobody at your door. As for them knocks—" She stopped abruptly, as though she had said too much.
"Well, what about the knocks?" I said more gently.
"Of course," she stammered, "the knocks isn't mice, nor the footsteps neither, but then—" Again she came to a full halt.
"Anything wrong with the house?"
"Lor', no, sir; the drains is splendid."