'
'Then he must have taken the key out of Steadman's pocket, or Steadman
must have left it about somewhere,' muttered Mrs. Steadman, as if
explaining the matter to herself, rather than to Mary. 'My poor husband
is not the man he was. And so you met him in the corridor, and he
brought you in here. Poor old gentleman! He gets madder and madder every
day.'
'There is method in his madness,' said Lord Hartfield. 'He talked very
much like sanity just now. Has your husband had the charge of him long?'
Mrs. Steadman answered somewhat confusedly.
'A goodish time, sir. I can't quite exactly say--time passes so quiet in
a place like this. One hardly keeps count of the years.'
'Forty years, perhaps?'
Mrs. Steadman blenched under Lord Hartfield's steadfast look--a look
which questioned more searchingly than his words.
'Forty years,' she repeated, with a faint laugh. 'Oh, dear no, sir, not
a quarter as long. It isn't so many years, after all, since Steadman's
poor old uncle went a little queer in his head; and Steadman, having
such a quiet home here, and plenty of spare room, made bold to ask her
ladyship if he might give the poor old man a home, where he would be in
nobody's way.
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