She presented herself at the counter in the waiting-room. “I’ll trouble you, young woman, for a glass of ale.” She returned to Alban in a better humor. “It’s not bad stuff, that! When I have said my say, I’ll have a drop more--just to wash the taste of Mr. Mirabel out of my mouth. Wait a bit; I have something to ask you. How much longer are you obliged to stop here, teaching the girls to draw?” “I leave Netherwoods in three days more,” Alban replied. “That’s all right! You may be in time to bring Miss Emily to her senses, yet.” “What do you mean?” “I mean--if you don’t stop it--she will marry the parson.” “I can’t believe it, Mrs. Ellmother! I won’t believe it!” “Ah, it’s a comfort to him, poor fellow, to say that! Look here, Mr. Morris; this is how it stands. You’re in disgrace with Miss Emily--and he profits by it. I was fool enough to take a liking to Mr. Mirabel when I first opened the door to him; I know better now. He got on the blind side of me; and now he has got on the blind side of _her_. Shall I tell you how? By doing what you would have done if you had had the chance. He’s helping her--or pretending to help her, I don’t know which--to find the man who murdered poor Mr. Brown. After four years! And when all the police in England (with a reward to encourage them) did their best, and it came to nothing!” “Never mind that!” Alban said impatiently. “I want to know how Mr. Mirabel is helping her?” “That’s more than I can tell you. You don’t suppose they take me into their confidence? All I can do is to pick up a word, here and there, when fine weather tempts them out into the garden. She tells him to suspect Mrs. Rook, and to make inquiries after Miss Jethro. And he has his plans; and he writes them down, which is dead against his doing anything useful, in my opinion. I don’t hold with your scribblers. At the same time I wouldn’t count too positively, in your place, on his being likely to fail. That little Mirabel--if it wasn’t for his beard, I should believe he was a woman, and a sickly woman too; he fainted in our house the other day--that little Mirabel is in earnest. Rather than leave Miss Emily from Saturday to Monday, he has got a parson out of employment to do his Sunday work for him. And, what’s more, he has persuaded her (for some reasons of his own) to leave London next week.” “Is she going back to Monksmoor?” “Not she! Mr. Mirabel has got a sister, a widow lady; she’s a cripple, or something of the sort. Her name is Mrs. Delvin. She lives far away in the north country, by the sea; and Miss Emily is going to stay with her.” “Are you sure of that?” “Sure? I’ve seen the letter.” “Do you mean the letter of invitation?”