Our man had successfully traced the lodgekeeper’s daughter and her husband to a small town in one of the Western States. Mr. Playmore’s letter of introduction at once secured him a cordial reception from the married pair, and a patient hearing when he stated the object of his voyage across the Atlantic.
His first questions led to no very encouraging results. The woman was confused and surprised, and was apparently quite unable to exert her memory to any useful purpose. Fortunately, her husband proved to be a very intelligent man. He took the agent privately aside, and said to him, “I understand my wife, and you don’t. Tell me exactly what it is you want to know, and leave it to me to discover how much she remembers and how much she forgets.”
This sensible suggestion was readily accepted. The agent waited for events a day and a night.
Early the next morning the husband said to him, “Talk to my wife now, and you’ll find she has something to tell you. Only mind this. Don’t laugh at her when she speaks of trifles. She is half ashamed to speak of trifles, even to me. Thinks men are above such matters, you know. Listen quietly, and let her talk—and you will get at it all in that way.”
The agent followed his instructions, and “got at it” as follows:
The woman remembered, perfectly well, being sent to clean the bedrooms and put them tidy, after the gentlefolks had all left Gleninch. Her mother had a bad hip at the time, and could not go with her and help her. She did not much fancy being alone in the great house, after what had happened in it. On her way to her work she passed two of the cottagers’ children in the neighborhood at play in the park. Mr. Macallan was always kind to his poor tenants, and never objected to the young ones round about having a run on the grass. The two children idly followed her to the house. She took them inside, along with her—not liking the place, as already mentioned, and feeling that they would be company in the solitary rooms.
She began her work in the Guests’ Corridor—leaving the room in the other corridor, in which the death had happened, to the last.
There was very little to do in the two first rooms. There was not litter enough, when she had swept the floors and cleaned the grates, to even half fill the housemaid’s bucket which she carried with her. The children followed her about; and, all things considered, were “very good company” in the lonely place.
The third room (that is to say, the bedchamber which had been occupied by Miserrimus Dexter) was in a much worse state than the other two, and wanted a great deal of tidying. She did not much notice the children here, being occupied with her work. The litter was swept up from the carpet, and the cinders and ashes were taken out of the grate, and the whole of it was in the bucket, when her attention was recalled to the children by hearing one of them cry.
She looked about the room without at first discovering them.