Lady's maids -- Fiction; Love stories; Wessex (England) -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
‘Ho--you here!’ he exclaimed.
‘Don’t think I am a spy upon you,’ she said, in an imploring whisper.
Anne recognized the voice as Miss Aldclyffe’s.
The trembling lady added hastily another remark, which was drowned in
the recurring creak of the engine close at hand The first watcher, if he
had come no nearer than his original position, was too far off to hear
any part of this dialogue, on account of the roar of the falling water,
which could reach him unimpeded by the bank.
The remark of Miss Aldclyffe to Manston had plainly been concerning the
first watcher, for Manston, with his spade in his hand, instantly rushed
to where the man was concealed, and, before the latter could disengage
himself from the boughs, the steward struck him on the head with the
blade of the instrument. The man fell to the ground.
‘Fly!’ said Miss Aldclyffe to Manston. Manston vanished amidst the
trees. Miss Aldclyffe went off in a contrary direction.
Anne Seaway was about to run away likewise, when she turned and looked
at the fallen man. He lay on his face, motionless.
Many of these women who own to no moral code show considerable
magnanimity when they see people in trouble. To act right simply because
it is one’s duty is proper; but a good action which is the result of no
law of reflection shines more than any. She went up to him and gently
turned him over, upon which he began to show signs of life. By her
assistance he was soon able to stand upright.
He looked about him with a bewildered air, endeavouring to collect his
ideas. ‘Who are you?’ he said to the woman, mechanically.
It was bad policy now to attempt disguise. ‘I am the supposed Mrs.
Manston,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the officer employed by Mr. Raunham to sift this mystery--which
may be criminal.’ He stretched his limbs, pressed his head, and
seemed gradually to awake to a sense of having been incautious in his
utterance. ‘Never you mind who I am,’ he continued. ‘Well, it doesn’t
matter now, either--it will no longer be a secret.’
He stooped for his hat and ran in the direction the steward had
taken--coming back again after the lapse of a minute.
‘It’s only an aggravated assault, after all,’ he said hastily, ‘until we
have found out for certain what’s buried here. It may be only a bag of
building rubbish; but it may be more. Come and help me dig.’ He seized
the spade with the awkwardness of a town man, and went into the pit,
continuing a muttered discourse. ‘It’s no use my running after him
single-handed,’ he said. ‘He’s ever so far off by this time. The best
step is to see what is here.’
It was far easier for the detective to re-open the hole than it had been
for Manston to form it. The leaves were raked away, the loam thrown out,
and the sack dragged forth.
‘Hold this,’ he said to Anne, whose curiosity still kept her standing
near. He turned on the light of a dark lantern he had brought, and gave
it into her hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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