“What was the extra job?” asked Thomas curiously.

Susan shook her head.  “Mother never found out.  She went to the house he worked on, which is near the station.  They said father always went away for three hours every afternoon by an arrangement with the foreman.  Where he went, no one knew.  He came straight from this extra job home and died of poison.  Mother thought,” added Susan, looking round cautiously, “that someone must have had a wish to get rid of father, he knowing too much.”

“Too much of what, my gal?” asked Mrs. Pill, with open mouth.

“Ah!  That’s what I’d like to find out,” said Susan garrulously, “but nothing was ever known, and father was buried as a suicide.  Then mother, having me and my four brothers, married again, and I took the name of her new husband.”

“Then your name ain’t really Grant?” asked Geraldine.

“No!  It’s Maxwell, father being Scotch and a clever workman.  Susan Maxwell is my name, but after the suicide—­if it was one—­mother felt the disgrace so, that she made us all call ourselves Grant.  So Susan Grant I am, and my brothers of the old family are Grant also.”

“What do you mean by the old family?”

“Mother has three children by her second husband, and that’s the new family,” explained Susan, “but we are all Grants, though me and my four brothers are really Maxwells.  But there,” she said, looking round quietly and rather pleased at the interest with which she was regarded, “I’ve told you a lot.  Tell me something!”

Mrs. Pill was unwilling to leave the fascinating subject of suicide, but her desire to talk got the better of her, and she launched into a long account of her married life.  It seemed she had buried the late Mr. Pill ten years before, and since that time had been with Miss Loach as cook.  She had saved money and could leave service at once, if she so chose.  “But I should never be happy out of my kitchen, my love,” said Mrs. Pill, biting a piece of darning-cotton, “so here I stay till missus goes under.”

“And she won’t do that for a long time,” said Thomas.  “Missus is strong.  A good, kind, healthy lady.”

Geraldine followed with an account of herself, which related chiefly to her good looks and many lovers, and the tyranny of mistresses.  “I will say, however, that after being here a year, I have nothing to complain of.”

“I should think not,” grunted Thomas.  “I’ve been twenty years with Miss Loach, and a good ’un she is.  I entered her service when I was fifteen, and she could have married an earl—­Lord Caranby wanted to marry her—­but she wouldn’t.”

“Lor,” said Mrs. Pill, “and ain’t that his lordship’s nephew who comes here at times?”

“Mr. Mallow?  Yes!  That’s him.  He’s fond of the old lady.”

“And fond of her niece, too,” giggled Geraldine; “not but what Miss Saxon is rather sweet.”

“Rather sweet,” growled the cook, “why, she’s a lovely gal, sich as you’ll never be, in spite of your fine name.  An’ her brother, Mr. Basil, is near as ’andsome as she.”