Corkscrew could make but very blundering excuses for himself and, conscious of guilt, he turned pale, and appeared so much more terrified than butlers usually appear when detected in a lie, that Mrs. Pomfret resolved, as she said, to sift the matter to the bottom. Impatiently did she wait till the clock struck nine, and her mistress’ bell rang, the signal for her attendance at her levee. “How do you find yourself this morning, ma’am?” said she, undrawing the curtains. “Very sleepy, indeed,” answered her mistress in a drowsy voice; “I think I must sleep half an hour longer—shut the curtains.” “As you please, ma’am; but I suppose I had better open a little of the window shutter, for it’s past nine.” “But just struck.” “Oh dear, ma’am, it struck before I came upstairs, and you know we are twenty minutes slow—Lord bless us!” exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, as she let fall the bar of the window, which roused her mistress. “I’m sure I beg your pardon a thousand times—it’s only the bar—because I had this great key in my hand.” “Put down the key, then, or you’ll knock something else down; and you may open the shutters now; for I’m quite awake.” “Dear me! I’m so sorry to think of disturbing you,” cried Mrs. Pomfret, at the same time throwing the shutters wide open; “but, to be sure, ma’am, I have something to tell you, which won’t let you sleep again in a hurry. I brought up this here key of the house door for reasons of my own, which I’m sure you’ll approve of; but I’m not come to that part of my story yet. I hope you were not disturbed by the noise in the house last night, ma’am.” “I heard no noise.” “I am surprised at that, though,” continued Mrs. Pomfret, and proceeded to give a most ample account of the fire, of her fears, and her suspicions. “To be sure, ma’am, what I say _is_, that, without the spirit of prophecy, one can nowadays account for what has passed. I’m quite clear in my own judgment, that Mr. Corkscrew must have been out last night after I went to bed; for, besides the japanned candlestick, which of itself I’m sure is strong enough to hang a man, there’s another circumstance, ma’am, that certifies it to me—though I have not mentioned it, ma’am, to no one yet,” lowering her voice—“Franklin, when I questioned him, told me, that he left the lantern in the outside porch in the court last night, and this morning it was on the kitchen table. Now, ma’am, that lantern could not come without hands; and I could not forget about that, you know; for Franklin says, he’s sure he left the lantern out.” “And do you believe _him_?” inquired her mistress. “To be sure, ma’am—how can I help believing him? I never found him out in the least symptom of a lie since ever he came into the house; so one can’t help believing in him, like him or not.” “Without meaning to tell a falsehood, however,” said the lady, “he might make a mistake.”