"And did he never try to reform his ways when you told him that?" I asked, smiling.
"To be frank with you, Mr. Robinson, when I talked like that to him, he generally raised my pay. And what was a body to do then?"
"I can't see how Lucy Lawton stood the place as long as she did," I observed, watching Mrs. Malkin's red face very closely.
She swallowed the bait, and leaned forward, hands on knees.
"Poor girl, it got on her nerves. But she was the quiet kind. You never saw her, sir?"
I shook my head.
"One of them slim, faded girls, with light hair, and hardly a word to say for herself. I don't believe she got to know the next-door neighbor in the whole year she lived with your uncle. She was an orphan, wasn't she, sir?"
"Yes," I said. "Godfrey Sarston and I were her only living relatives. That was why she came from Australia to stay with him, after her father's death."
Mrs. Malkin nodded. I was hoping that, by putting a check on my eagerness, I could lead her on to a number of things I greatly desired to know. Up to the time I had induced the housekeeper to show me through this strange house of my Uncle Godfrey's, the whole affair had been a mystery of lips which closed and faces which were averted at my approach. Even the coroner seemed unwilling to tell me just how my uncle had died."
"Did you understand she was going to live with him, sir?" asked Mrs. Malkin, looking hard at me.
I confined myself to a nod.
"Well, so did I. Yet, after a year, back she went."
"She went suddenly?" I suggested.
"So suddenly that I never knew a thing about it till after she was gone. I came to do my chores one day, and she was here. I came the next, and she had started back to Australia. That’s how sudden she went."
"They must have had a falling-out," I conjectured. "I suppose it was because of the house."
"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t."
"You know of other reasons?"
"I have eyes in my head," she said. "But I'm not going to talk about it. Shall we be getting on now, sir?"
I tried another lead:
"I hadn't seen my uncle in five years, you know. He seemed terribly changed. He was not an old man, by any means, yet when I saw him at the funeral—" I paused, expectantly.
To my relief, she responded readily:
"He looked that way for the last few months, especially the last week. I spoke to him about it, two days before—before it happened, sir—and told him he’d do well to see the doctor again. But he cut me off short. My sister took sick the same day, and I was called out of town. The next time I saw him, he was—"
She paused, and then went on, sobbing:
"To think of him lyin' there in that awful place, and callin' and callin' for me, as I know he must, and me not around to hear him!"
As she stopped again, suddenly, and threw a suspicious glance at me, I hastened to insert a matter-of-fact question:
"Did he appear ill on that last day?"
"Not so much ill, as"
"Yes?" I prompted.
She was silent a long time, while I waited, afraid that some word of mine had brought back her former
