A neat, modest-mannered girl, simple and nervous, with a face as full, as clear and as honest as an English apple. "A pity," thought Mrs Dupreen, "that this confident, suspicious man canont see her now."
"Come in, Hilda. This gentleman wants to ask you something."
"Yes, ma'am." The round, blue eyes went appealingly to Carrados, fell upon the fungi spread out before her, and then circled the room with an instinct of escape.
"You remember the night poor Charlie died, Hilda," said Carrados in his suavest tones, "you cooked some mushrooms for his supper, didn't you?"
"No, sir," came the glib reply.
"'No,' Hilda!" exclaimed Mrs Dupreen in wonderment. "You mean 'yes,' surely, child. Of course you cooked them. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, ma'am," dutifully replied Hilda.
"That is all right," said the blind man reassuringly. "Nervous witnesses very often answer at random at first. You have nothing to be afraid of, my good girl, if you will tell the truth. I suppose you know a mushroom when you see it?"
"Yes, sir," was the rather hesitating reply.
"There was nothing like this among them?" He held up one of the poisonous sort.
"No, sir; indeed there wasn't, sir. I should have known then."
"You would have known then? You were not called at the inquest, Hilda?"
"No, sir."
"If you had been, what would you have told them about these mushrooms that you cooked?"
"I—I don't know, sir."
