“We stayed to deliver you the keys, sir. I have made all snug against our going.” “And where do you wend now?” said Mr. Tuke mockingly. “I don’t know, sir; indeed, I don’t. We must make shift in a barn for to-night.” “And your belongings--your personal effects?” The servant made a sad expressive gesture. “Only our poor clothes,” it seemed to imply. “Now, my good fellow,” said the baronet, a little grimly, “I decline, you know, to take the responsibility of this self-martyrdom. It is a weak attempt to put me in the wrong, which is no improvement of your case. I gave an order which was not carried out.” “She gives her word, sir, she never put the skull there.” “Nor you?” “Nor I, indeed, sir.” “H’m! It must be one of those remnants of mortality that provide for themselves, it seems. Anyhow, it is gone now, I presume?” “I will swear I took it away and locked it up.” “Very well. Then let us say no more about it. Do you wish to stay on?” “I wish, sir, with all respect, to do my duty by the place that has so long harboured us.” “Which means _I_ am not included in the contract, and that you would take service elsewhere if you could get a better.” The man was protesting, but the other stopped him with a laugh. “Go your ways,” said he. “I see no reason why you should love me. We will make it a question of duty, and abide by that.” Throughout the little discussion, Darda had stood in the entrance, passive and indifferent. Now, foreseeing the upshot, she turned and walked away into the gathering dusk of the house. Mr. Tuke followed, jovially whistling. All the evening he was in great spirits, and at supper he had up a bottle of Muscadine, jacketed with a half-century growth of cobwebs and tartar, and drank to the blue of a couple of eyes that were comically, and a little sweetly, in his thoughts. He went to bed, slept like Innocence, and woke like Justice, and, as he lay on his morning pillow, pondered the oddities of his new life. One small matter exercised his mind perplexingly--his antipathy to the man Whimple. Whence it was born, and on what cherished, he found it difficult to decide. The fellow was respectful, obedient, and, so far as he knew, honest. Yet, from the first, he had felt an inclination, unusual to his bent, to bully him and depreciate his efforts. Something in the man--he could not tell what--woke suspicion in him--unjustified, he verily believed. He would remedy this, if possible; would look with a broader view of toleration on the conduct of his spiritless dependent. The resolve was frank and characteristic enough; and he was decided to give it immediate expression. But so it happened, an incident of the coming day was to reawaken and confirm his deepest distrust in the unhappy caretaker.