“Talking of the kitchen, reminds me of food,” remarked the visitor rising. “My husband will be back clamouring for his lunch and I must run,” and in spite of her size, Mrs. Billing was out of the house in less than no time, pursued by a volley of questions to the very gate. During that afternoon there was an unusual amount of visiting and talking; the recent event had stirred the village to its depths, but beyond the facts disclosed by Mrs. Billing everything was surmise and regret; the personality of the late Edward Shafto, though slightly known, was much respected. “He was a gentleman”—the statement implied a left-handed compliment to his wife—“and his purse was ever open to the poor; it was said that he was a secret benefactor to various aged people, and to the local charities.” As the Misses Tebbs sat at supper the following night—a frugal meal of cocoa and bread and butter—Eliza tramped in, still wearing her hat; it had been her afternoon out. She seemed to be a little breathless, and was undoubtedly charged with some weighty intelligence. “Well, Eliza, what is it?” eagerly inquired Miss Tebbs. “I just thought I’d step over to ‘Littlecote’ this evening, and see Hannah.” Oh, priceless handmaiden! “Yes—and what did she tell you?” Eliza placed her hands on her hips—invariable preliminary to an important announcement. “She took me to see the corpse; he looked beautiful, just like a marble statue; and there in front of the dead, what do you think Hannah told me? That Mrs. Shafto had _killed_ him!” She paused to contemplate the effect of this statement. “Yes, his heart was always weak, he couldn’t stand no shocks, and when he come back wore out from London, and told her as how he was ruined, the screams of that woman was enough to bring the house down! Hannah ran in and there was he, lying back in a chair, and she standing over him with a face all worked up, and her hands clenched, shouting at him that it was all through his lunacy and laziness they were beggared—and she wished he was _dead_. I couldn’t tell you all the awful things she said, but he fainted right away and never come to again. Now, what do you say to that?” and she surveyed her audience judicially. The sisters remained dumb; for once, speech had failed them. “As for caring,” continued Eliza, “Mrs. Shafto doesn’t feel no more than this table,” rapping it with her bony knuckles; “all she minds is about _the money_—and already they say she has been routing among his papers, searching for his bank book. Oh! she is an awful woman, her heart is just a stone. As for poor Master Douglas, now there’s real grief! He hasn’t tasted a bite or sup, and he looks crushed. Everyone in the place will be sorry for him and for his father; but as far as Mrs. Shafto is concerned, when she’s paid off the money she owes—the sooner the place can get shut of her the better!” CHAPTER III THE CLOSED HOUSE