"Mistress," she said, "doesn't always talk quite collectedly."
"You have hit it exactly. She is sometimes a little incoherent."
"She is, Sir; but that comes, I am sure, from too much good spirits. She's as bright and brisk as a bird which the eye can't always follow."
"Do you really think this way of hers comes from her good spirits?"
"I beg you'll excuse me, Sir," she remarked, folding her hands, "but I should like to know what you think."
"No, Mrs. Williams, I question you. Pray be perfectly frank with me. You must see I have a motive in asking you these questions. I have faith in your judgment, and I am anxious to hear your opinion of Mrs. Thorburn."
Her fingers worked nervously, and something like an expression of distress entered her face. She remained silent. I looked through the window; Geraldine was gone.
"Mrs. Williams, I am going to ask you a question. The fact of my asking it will convince you of the high opinion I have of your character and how much I appreciate your conduct since you have been in my service. It will imply also the confidence I possess in your truth and secrecy—in your truth to give me an honest downright answer, and in your secrecy to conceal whatever discovery you may make. Do you think my wife sane?"
The answer came reluctantly: "No, Sir."
"What makes you doubt her sanity?"