“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who seemed filled with astonishment.
“In God's name!” said he, interrupting his accomplice, “what can this mean? Who are you, my good girl?”
“My name's Catherine Wilson, sir.”
“Catherine Wilson!” exclaimed the squire—“why, confound your brazen face, are you not the person who styled yourself Miss Herbert, and who lived, thank God, but for a short time only, in my family?”
“I lived in your family, sir, but I am not the Miss Herbert that Sir Robert Whitecraft recommended to you.”
“I certainly know nothing about you, my good girl,” replied Sir Robert, “nor do I recollect having ever seen you before; but proceed with what you have to say, and let us hear it at once.”
“Yes, sir; but perhaps you are not the gentleman as is known to be Sir Robert Whitecraft—him as hunts the priests. Oh, la, I'll surely be sent to jail. Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jail, I'll tell you everything.”
“Well, then, proceed,” said the squire; “I will not send you to jail, provided you tell the truth.”
“Nor I, my good girl,” added Sir Robert, “but upon the same conditions.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with Miss Herbert—she is Hirish, but I'm English. This gentleman gave her a letter to you, Mr. Folliard, to get her as maid to Miss Helen—she told me—oh, my goodness, I shall surely be sent to jail.”