"It's no business of our'n, cook," said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall. The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season's pocket. "There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then," whispered cook. "That's so, under the stairkiss window," said the gardener. "Under the stairkiss window!" said the housemaid. "My?" Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor, "But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?" said cook excitedly. "Oh, it's easy enough to any one as knows what he's about," said the gardener. "Off course he'd drop down." "And no bars to the window," exclaimed cook indignantly. "Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night." "Not you, cook. Burglars don't know," said John, "and higgerance is stronger than iron bars." "But shan't you tell Miss Gertrude?" said the housemaid. "What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little lass? Not likely." "No," said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; "a still tongue maketh a wise head." This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at The Mynns. "Well, here's luck," said John Season, before tossing off the remaining half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket, he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the late dinner: "Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a beet." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A VISIT TO THE WINE BINS. Punctual to his time Mr Hampton came down the road from the station, with the _Globe_ in his hand, the _Pall Mall_ under his arm, and the _Evening Standard_ in his pocket. As he came in sight of the house, he was aware of the tall, gaunt figure of Mrs Hampton standing at the drawing-room window, forming a kit-cat picture in a frame, which, as he drew nearer, and the high brick wall interposed, gradually became a half length, then a quarter, then a head, the lace of a cap, and nothing at all. The old lady was at the top of the steps, sour-looking and frowning, as he neared the entrance, but full of interest in him and sympathy. "You look tired, dear," she said. "Eh? No. Pretty comfortable. How's Gertrude?" "In trouble." "Eh? What about?" "George Harrington went out last night on the sly, and hasn't come back." The old lawyer uttered a grunt. "Not been near you?" "No, no!" "Nor written?" "Not he!" "Nor sent a telegram?" "No, my dear, no." "Then, all I can say is that it's very disgraceful." "Out all night, and of course poor Gertrude as anxious--" "As if she was his wife," added the lawyer, hanging up his hat and light overcoat.