"But you, Sarah; if you were upstairs with your master, you must
surely have heard that shriek; it seemed to come from upstairs."
"Did master hear it?" asked the girl deliberately.
"He says not."
"Then how should I, mum? No, mum, I didn't hear nothink; I can take my
Bible oath of that."
"I don't want any oaths; I only want to know the meaning of this
business. There would have been no harm in your screaming. You might just
as well speak the truth about it."
"Lor, mum, but it warn't me," answered Sarah Batts with an injured look.
"Whatever could go to put it in your head as it was me?"
"It must have been one or other of you two girls. There's no other woman
in the house; and as you were upstairs, it seems more likely to have been
you. However, there's no use talking any more about it. Only we both
heard the scream, didn't we, Mrs. Tadman?"
"I should think we did, indeed," responded the widow with a vehement
shudder. "My flesh is all upon the creep at this very moment. I don't
think I ever had such a turn in my life."
They went back to the parlour, leaving the two servants still sitting by
the fire; Sarah Batts with that look of injured innocence fixed upon her
wooden countenance, Martha Holden cheerfully employed in the construction
of her Sunday cap. In the parlour the two men were both standing by the
table, the stranger with his back to the women as they entered, Stephen
Whitelaw facing him.
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