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I have some business there that must be looked to directly,’
Mrs. Rouncewell answers.
‘Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bag-
net? But of course I know you will. Why should I ask it!’
Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.
‘Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along
with you. Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson,
a hearty shake of the hand to Lignum, and this for yourself,
and I wish it was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!’ So
saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old girl’s tanned fore-
head, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.
No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper
will induce Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own
conveyance home. Jumping out cheerfully at the door of
the Dedlock mansion and handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the
steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off, arriving
soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and fall-
ing to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.
My Lady is in that room in which she held her last con-
ference with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat
that night, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon
the hearth studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the
door. Who is it? Mrs. Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs.
Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?
‘Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg
a word with you?’
What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old
woman tremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady
has often thought, why does she falter in this manner and

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