"So your master is away from home, my lass," he said, in his most
insinuating tone, as he slowly stirred his brandy-and-water.
"Yes, he be, sir."
"Do you know when he's coming back?" inquired Larkspur.
"Lawks, no, sir."
"Or where he's gone?"
"No, sir, I don't know that neither. My master's a good one to hold his
tongue, he is. He never tells nobody nothing, in a manner of speaking."
"When did he go away?"
The girl named the morning on which had been discovered the
disappearance of Sir Oswald's daughter.
"He went away pretty early, I suppose?" said Mr. Larkspur, with assumed
indifference.
"I should rather think he did," answered the girl. "I was up at six
that morning, but my master had gone clean off when I came down stairs.
There weren't a sign of him."
"He must have gone very early."
"That he must; and the strangest part of it is that he was up very late
the night before," added the girl, who was one of those people who ask
nothing better than the privilege of telling all they know about
anything or anybody.
"Oh," said Mr. Larkspur; "he was up late the night before, was he?"
"Yes. It was eleven when he sent me to bed, ordering me off as sharp as
you please, which is just his way. And he couldn't have gone to bed for
above an hour after that, for I lay awake, on the listen, as you may
say, wondering what he was up to downstairs.
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