“A married man always has luggage. Mother used to pack father’s bag herself. If there are buttons off or a thin place in the socks it reflects on the wife.” “I must say”--Aunt Sophy held out her finger for the child to clutch--“that a gentleman doesn’t usually--return from South America----” “Without so much as a tooth-brush,” broke in Maria. “He might have had it in his pocket,” Annie reminded her gently. “We mustn’t condemn until we are certain.” “They came down quite coolly to breakfast in the morning,” Maria continued. “Not a word of explanation to Tryphena--Hone’s eldest girl; the Hones of Marrow’s farm. I was always against Tryphena taking service at the Buttery. The Hones are in my district.” There was a little pause. The baby broke it by cooing. Then Maria cried out suddenly: “Good gracious! He can’t be the Birmingham murderer in hiding at the Buttery. He may be her husband, after all--which makes it all the more reprehensible. Mrs. Daborn tells me he looked a _most_ suspicious character: one of those men with a bronzed face, bold eyes, and a suit with a large check.” “Mrs. Si Daborn is nearly blind with cataract.” “You always try to make out a good case for people, Annie. Mrs. Si Daborn can see a large-checked suit. She is a most respectable old soul; I think a great deal of her judgment. Her eldest daughter married a builder; he is in a large way of business at Walthamstow.” “A murderer! Maria!” Aunt Sophy for once forgot to be diplomatically gentle. “I must say that it isn’t wise to talk so wildly. You’ll frighten Annie and upset the darling baby.” “The Birmingham murderer! Is that the man who murdered his employer and his employer’s six motherless children? Boiled them in the copper, didn’t he?” Annie put the questions quite calmly--as if they merely referred to a family recipe for making pickled walnuts. “Yes, that’s the man.” “Then he can’t be at the Buttery. Jim brought home the evening paper from Liddleshorn. There is a portrait of the murderer and his victims--_before_ they went into the copper--poor things. He was arrested. He committed suicide in his cell.” The sweet, spiteful expression stole across Aunt Sophy’s face as she glanced at Maria, who only said tartly: “He wasn’t the only criminal in the country, after all. Read the papers regularly, both of you, and see how many crimes there are which are never fastened on to the right person.” “I rather thought,” said Annie placidly, “that Pamela would come up to tea. I told her that I was going to short-coat baby to-day.” “Rather funny about her brother, wasn’t it?” Maria had a faculty for starting aggressive subjects. Aunt Sophy put on her best dignity air--the air she adopted toward people who only kept one servant, who hadn’t a “conveyance,” who didn’t get invited to the Vicarage. “I used to think that he was courting Nancy,” Maria continued, unabashed.