Sal,” she went on, leaning back in her seat, “so get a chair and talk to me.”
Sal complied, and Madge looked out at the brilliant flower-beds, and at the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian which affected him so deeply.
“Sal,” she said, after a short pause, turning her clear grey eyes on the woman, “I want to ask you something.”
The other shivered and turned pale.
“About—about that?”
Madge nodded.
Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress.
“I will tell you,” she cried. “You have been kind to me, an’ have a right to know. I will tell you all I know.”
“Then,” asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together, “who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?”
“Gran’ an’ me found her one evenin’ in Little Bourke Street,” answered Sal, “just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an’ we took her home with us.”
“How kind of you,” said Madge.
“Oh, it wasn’t that,” replied the other, dryly. “Gran’ wanted her clothes; she was awful swell dressed.”
“And she took the clothes—how wicked!”
“Anyone would have done it down our way,” answered Sal, indifferently; “but Gran’ changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get some gin for Gran’, and when I came back she was huggin’ and kissin’ the woman.”
“She recognised her.”
“Yes, I s’pose so,” replied Sal, “an’ next mornin’, when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran’, an’ hollered out, ‘I was comin’ to see you.’”
“And then?”
“Gran’ chucked me out of the room, an’ they had a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran’ tells me the lady is a-goin’ to stay with us ‘cause she was ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte.”
“And he came?”
“Oh, yes—often,” said Sal. “He kicked up a row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill, he sent a doctor; but it warn’t no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the mornin’ she saw Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?”
“Lots,” returned Sal; “but he always turned Gran’ an’ me out of the room afore he started.”
“And”—hesitating—“did you ever overhear one of these conversations?”
“Yes—one,” answered the other, with a nod. “I got riled at the way he cleared us out of our own room; and once, when he shut the door and Gran’ went off to get some gin, I sat down at the door and listened. He wanted her to give up some papers, an’ she wouldn’t. She said she’d die first; but at last he got ‘em, and took ‘em away with him.”
“Did you see them?” asked Madge, as the assertion of Gorby that Whyte had been murdered for certain papers flashed across her mind.
“Rather,” said Sal, “I was looking through a hole in the door, an’ she takes ‘em from under her piller, an’ ‘e takes ‘em to the table, where the candle was, an’ looks at ‘em—they were in a large blue envelop, with writing on it in red ink—then he put ‘em in his pocket, and she sings out: ‘You’ll lose ‘em,’ an’ ‘e says: ‘No, I’ll always ‘ave ‘em with me, an’ if ‘e wants ‘em ‘e’ll have to kill me fust afore ‘e gits ‘em.’”
“And you did not know who the man was to whom the papers were of such importance?”
“No, I didn’t; they never said no names.”
“And when was it Whyte got the papers?”
“About a week before he was murdered,” said Sal, after a moment’s thought. “An’ after that he never turned up again. She kept watchin’ for him night an’ day, an’ ‘cause he didn’t come, got mad at him. I hear her sayin’, ‘You think you’ve done with me, my gentleman, an’ leaves me here to die, but I’ll spoil your little game,’ an’ then she wrote that letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, an’ I brought him to her, as you know.”
“Yes, yes,” said Madge, rather impatiently. “I heard all that at the trial, but what conversation passed between Mr. Fitzgerald and this woman? Did you hear it?”
“Bits of it,” replied the other. “I didn’t split in Court, ‘cause I thought the lawyer would be down on me for listening. The first thing I heard Mr. Fitzgerald sayin’ was, ‘You’re mad—it ain’t true,’ an’ she ses, ‘S’elp me it is, Whyte’s got the proof,’ an’ then he sings out, ‘My poor girl,’ and she ses, ‘Will you marry her now?’ and ses he, ‘I will, I love her more than ever;’ and then she makes a grab at him, and says, ‘Spile his game if you can,’ and says he, ‘What’s yer name?’ and she says—”
“What?” asked Madge, breathlessly.
“Rosanna Moore!”
There was a sharp exclamation as Sal said the name, and, turning round quickly, Madge found Brian standing beside her, pale as death, with his eyes fixed on the woman, who had risen to her feet.
“Go on!” he said sharply.
“That’s all I know,” she replied, in a sullen tone. Brian gave a sigh of relief.
“You can go,” he said slowly; “I wish to speak with Miss Frettlby alone.”
Sal looked at him for a moment, and then glanced at her mistress, who nodded to her as a sign that she might withdraw. She picked up her book, and with another sharp enquiring look at Brian, turned and walked slowly into the house.
Chapter XXII.
A Daughter of Eve
After Sal had gone, Brian sank into a chair beside Madge with a weary sigh. He was in riding dress, which became his stalwart figure well, and he looked remarkably handsome but ill and worried.
“What on earth were you questioning that girl about?” he said abruptly, taking his hat off, and tossing it and his gloves on to the floor.
Madge flushed crimson for a moment, and then taking Brian’s two strong hands in her own, looked steadily into his frowning face.
“Why don’t you trust me?” she asked, in a quiet tone.
“It is not necessary that I should,” he answered moodily. “The secret that Rosanna Moore told me on her death-bed is nothing that would benefit you to know.”
“Is it about me?” she persisted.
“It is, and it is not,” he answered, epigrammatically.
“I suppose that means that it is about a third person, and concerns me,” she said calmly, releasing his hands.
“Well, yes,” impatiently striking his boot with his riding whip. “But it is nothing that can harm you so long as you do