Being reminded, by all this, of what Mr. Franklin had said about our being a scattered and disunited household, my mind was led naturally to Mr. Franklin himself.  The more I thought of him, the more uneasy I felt about his future proceedings.  It ended in my writing, by the Sunday’s post, to his father’s valet, Mr. Jeffco (whom I had known in former years) to beg he would let me know what Mr. Franklin had settled to do, on arriving in London.

The Sunday evening was, if possible, duller even than the Saturday evening.  We ended the day of rest, as hundreds of thousands of people end it regularly, once a week, in these islands—­that is to say, we all anticipated bedtime, and fell asleep in our chairs.

How the Monday affected the rest of the household I don’t know.  The Monday gave me a good shake up.  The first of Sergeant Cuff’s prophecies of what was to happen—­namely, that I should hear from the Yollands—­came true on that day.

I had seen Penelope and my lady’s maid off in the railway with the luggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard my name called.  Turning round, I found myself face to face with the fisherman’s daughter, Limping Lucy.  Bating her lame foot and her leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man.  A dark, keen, clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of hair counted among her merits.  A crutch appeared in the list of her misfortunes.  And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her defects.

“Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you want with me?”

“Where’s the man you call Franklin Blake?” says the girl, fixing me with a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.

“That’s not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman,” I answered.  “If you wish to inquire for my lady’s nephew, you will please to mention him as Mr. Franklin Blake.”

She limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten me alive.  “Mr. Franklin Blake?” she repeated after me.  “Murderer Franklin Blake would be a fitter name for him.”

My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here.  Whenever a woman tries to put you out of temper, turn the tables, and put her out of temper instead.  They are generally prepared for every effort you can make in your own defence, but that.  One word does it as well as a hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy.  I looked her pleasantly in the face; and I said—­“Pooh!”

The girl’s temper flamed out directly.  She poised herself on her sound foot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the ground.  “He’s a murderer! he’s a murderer! he’s a murderer!  He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman!” She screamed that answer out at the top of her voice.  One or two of the people at work in the grounds near us looked up—­saw it was Limping Lucy—­knew what to expect from that quarter—­and looked away again.