To be perfectly honest, it seemed to me more in the nature of a nightmare, but wild horses wouldn't have dragged any such hostile criticism out of me.
"I think it will suit you very nicely, Gertie," I said. "It's got just that dash of colour which Edith Terrace wants."
"Yer reely mean it?" she asked eagerly. "Yer reely think I'll look orl right in it? 'Course it do seem a bit funny like with this 'ere frock, but I got a green velveteen wot belonged to Mrs. Oldbury's niece. It won't 'alf go with that."
"It won't indeed," I agreed heartily. Then, looking up from my eggs and bacon, I added: "By the way, Gertie, I've never thanked you for your letter. I had no idea you could, write so well."
"Go on!" said Gertie doubtfully; "you're gettin' at me now."
"No, I'm not," I answered. "It was a very nice letter. It said just what you wanted to say and nothing more. That's the whole art of good letter-writing." Then a sudden idea struck me. "Look here, Gertie," I went on, "will you undertake a little job for me if I explain it to you?"
She nodded. "Oo—rather. I'd do any think for you."
"Well, it's something I may want you to do for me after I've left."
Her face fell. "You ain't goin' away from 'ere—not for good?"
"Not entirely for good," I said. "I hope to do a certain amount of harm to at least one person before I come back." I paused. "It's just possible," I continued, "that after I've gone somebody may come to the house and ask questions about me—how I spent my time while I was here, and that sort of thing. If they should happen to ask you, I want you to tell them that I used to stay in bed most of the day and go to the theatre in the evening. Do you mind telling a lie for me?"