“What do you mean by a mistake?” I inquired, severely.
“Why, sor, I was desired to kape me eye upon you, and at night-time to look in upon your honour in bed, to see dat de moon didn’t shine upon your head, sor; for I was tould dat you were not in your right sinses, and dat de moon so excited your honour, dat dere was no telling what moorderous thricks you moightn’t be playin’ wid de household.”
“And who told you all this?”
“Miss Theresa, and she bid me tell you it was herself as set me to watch you, sor.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, a light beginning to break. “And did she order you to take my razor away?”
“Dat was me own sthrategem.”
“And pray how come you to find out now that I am not mad?”
“Why, yer honour, you’re not de gintleman Miss Theresa tort you. I’m sure, sir, I’m very much ashamed of de inconvainance and throuble I’ve put your honour tew, and most humbly ax your pardon.”
Here his hand vibrated at his forehead.
“All right; say no more. I can see you are not to blame,” I replied, inwardly grappling with a very elusive idea that had been suggested by the man’s apologies. He retired, looking very contrite and ashamed, and I resumed my walk.