of these three direct questions, the
housekeeper  begged him to return to his chair, and
to speak to her. As he resumed his place,
she whispered to him, in warning tones,
"Remember Mrs. Frankland's letter!"

At the same moment, Uncle Joseph,
considering that he had waited long enough, took
a step forward to the door. He was prevented
from advancing any farther by his niece, who
caught him suddenly by the arm, and said in
his ear, "Look! they are whispering about
us again!"

"Well!" said Mr. Munder, replying to the
housekeeper. "I do remember Mrs.
Frankland's letter, ma'am, and what then?"

"Hush! not so loud," whispered Mrs.
Pentreath. "I don't presume, Mr. Munder,
to differ in opinion with you; but I want to
ask one or two questions. Do you think
we have any charge that a magistrate would
listen to, to bring against these people?"

Mr. Munder looked puzzled, and seemed,
for once in a way, to be at a loss for an
answer.

"Does what you remember of Mrs. Frankland's
letter," pursued the housekeeper,
"incline you to think that she would be pleased
at a public exposure of what has happened in
the house? She tells us to take private
notice of that woman's conduct, and to follow
her unperceived when she goes away. I don't
venture on the liberty of advising you, Mr.
Munder, but, as far as regards myself, I wash
my hands of all responsibility, if we do anything
but follow Mrs. Frankland's instructions
(as she herself tells us,) to the letter."

Mr. Munder hesitated. Uncle Joseph, who
had paused for a minute when Sarah directed
his attention to the whispering at the upper
end of the room, now drew her on slowly
with him to the door. "Betzi, my dear," he
said, addressing the maid, with perfect coolness
and composure; "we are strangers
here; will you be so kind to us as to show
the way out?"

Betsey looked at the housekeeper, who
motioned to her to appeal for orders to the
steward. Mr. Munder was sorely tempted,
for the sake of his own importance, to insist
on instantly carrying out the violent measures
to which he had threatened to have recourse;
but Mrs. Pentreath's objections made him
pause in spite of himself—not at all on
account of their validity, as abstract
objections, but purely on account of their close
connection with his own personal interest in
not imperilling his position with his
employers by the commission of a blunder which
they might never forgive.

"Betzi, my dear," repeated Uncle Joseph,
"has all this talking been too much for your
ears? has it made you deaf?"

"Wait!" cried Mr. Munder, impatiently.
"I insist on your waiting, sir!"

"You insist? Well, well, because you are
an uncivil man, is no reason why I should be
an uncivil man, too. We will wait a little,
sir, if you have anything more to say."
Making that concession to the claims of
politeness, Uncle Joseph walked gently
backwards and forwards with his niece in
the passage outside the door. "Sarah, my
child, I have frightened the man of the big
words," he whispered. "Try not to tremble
so much—we shall soon be out in the fresh
air again."

In the mean time, Mr. Munder continued
his whispered conversation with the
housekeeper, making a desperate effort, in the
midst of his perplexities, to maintain his
customary air of patronage, and his
customary assumption of superiority. "There is
a great deal of truth, ma'am," he softly
began, "a great deal of truth, certainly, in
what you say. But you are talking of the
woman, while I am talking of the man. Do
you mean to tell me that I am to let him go,
after what has happened, without at least
insisting on his giving me his name and
address?"

"Do you put trust enough, in the foreigner
to believe that he would give you his right
name and address if you asked him?"
enquired Mrs. Pentreath. "With submission
to your better judgment, I must confess that
I don't. But supposing you were to detain
him and charge him before the magistrate—
and how you are to do that, the magistrate's
house being, I suppose, about a couple of
hours' walk from here, is more than I can tell
—you must surely risk offending Mrs. Frankland
by detaining the woman and charging
the woman as well; for, after all, Mr.
Munder, though I believe the foreigner to
be capable of anything, it was the woman
who took the keys, was it not?"

"Quite so, quite so!" said Mr. Munder,
whose sleepy eyes were now opened to this
plain and straightforward view of the case
for the first time. "I was, oddly enough,
putting that point to myself, Mrs. Pentreath,
just before you happened to speak of it.
Yea, yes, yes—just so, just so!"

"I can't help thinking," continued the
housekeeper, in a mysterious whisper, " that
the best plan, and the plan most in accordance
with our instructions, is to let them
both go, as if we did not care to
demean ourselves by any more quarrelling or
arguing with them; and to have them
followed to the next place they stop at. The
gardener's boy, Jacob, is weeding the broad-
walk, in the west garden, this afternoon.
These people have not seen him about the
premises, and need not see him, if they are
let out again by the south door. Jacob is a
sharp lad, as you know; and, if he was
properly instructed, I really don't see—"

"It is a most singular circumstance, Mrs.
Pentreath," interposed Mr. Munder, with the
gravity of consummate assurance; "but
when I first sat down to this table, that idea
about Jacob occurred to me. What with
the effort of speaking, and the heat of