Louisa obeyed.  Magdalen seated herself at the opposite side of the table, and moved the candles, so as to obtain a clear and uninterrupted view of her servant’s face.

“Have you noticed a respectable elderly woman,” she began, abruptly, “who has been here once or twice in the last fortnight to pay me a visit?”

“Yes, ma’am; I think I let her in the second time she came.  An elderly person named Mrs. Attwood?”

“That is the person I mean.  Mrs. Attwood is Mr. Loscombe’s housekeeper; not the housekeeper at his private residence, but the housekeeper at his offices in Lincoln’s Inn.  I promised to go and drink tea with her some evening this week, and I have been to-night.  It is strange of me, is it not, to be on these familiar terms with a woman in Mrs. Attwood’s situation?”

Louisa made no answer in words.  Her face spoke for her:  she could hardly avoid thinking it strange.

“I had a motive for making friends with Mrs. Attwood,” Magdalen went on.  “She is a widow, with a large family of daughters.  Her daughters are all in service.  One of them is an under-housemaid in the service of Admiral Bartram, at St. Crux-in-the-Marsh.  I found that out from Mrs. Attwood’s master; and as soon as I arrived at the discovery, I privately determined to make Mrs. Attwood’s acquaintance.  Stranger still, is it not?”

Louisa began to look a little uneasy.  Her mistress’s manner was at variance with her mistress’s words—­it was plainly suggestive of something startling to come.

“What attraction Mrs. Attwood finds in my society,” Magdalen continued, “I cannot presume to say.  I can only tell you she has seen better days; she is an educated person; and she may like my society on that account.  At any rate, she has readily met my advances toward her.  What attraction I find in this good woman, on my side, is soon told.  I have a great curiosity—­an unaccountable curiosity, you will think—­about the present course of household affairs at St. Crux-in-the-Marsh.  Mrs. Attwood’s daughter is a good girl, and constantly writes to her mother.  Her mother is proud of the letters and proud of the girl, and is ready enough to talk about her daughter and her daughter’s place.  That is Mrs. Attwood’s attraction to me. You understand, so far?”

Yes—­Louisa understood.  Magdalen went on.  “Thanks to Mrs. Attwood and Mrs. Attwood’s daughter,” she said, “I know some curious particulars already of the household at St. Crux.  Servants’ tongues and servants’ letters—­as I need not tell you—­are oftener occupied with their masters and mistresses than their masters and mistresses suppose.  The only mistress at St. Crux is the housekeeper.  But there is a master—­Admiral Bartram.  He appears to be a strange old man, whose whims and fancies amuse his servants as well as his friends.  One of his fancies (the only one we need trouble ourselves to notice) is, that he had men enough about him when he was living at sea, and