"Yes, indeed!" she answered quickly. "Why do you ask, Mr. Briggs?"
Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. "It is not easy to explain," he said. "To run down my own employers wouldn't be in my line. But I've an idea that Clara--by which name I allude to my Lord Winsleigh's lady,--is up to mischief. She 'ates your lady, Miss Britta--'ates 'er like poison!"
"Hates her!" cried Britta in astonishment. "Oh, you must be mistaken, Mr. Briggs! She is as fond of her as she can be--almost like a sister to her!"
"Clara's a fine actress," murmured Briggs, more to himself than to his companion. "She'd beat Violet Vere on 'er own ground." Raising his voice a little, he turned gallantly to Britta and relieved her of the basket she held.
"Hallow me!" he said. "We'll walk to the 'ouse together. On the way I'll explain--and you'll judge for yourself. The words of the immortal bard, whose county we are in, occur to me as aprerpo,--'There are more things in 'evin and 'erth, 'Oratio,--than even the most devoted domestic can sometimes be aweer of.'"
And gently sauntering by Britta's side, Briggs began to converse in low and confidential tones,--she listened with strained and eager attention,--and she was soon receiving information that startled her and set her on the alert.
Talk of private detectives and secret service! Do private detectives ever discover so much as the servants of a man's own household?--servants who are aware of the smallest trifles,--who know the name and position of every visitor that comes and goes,--who easily learn to recognize the handwriting on every letter that arrives--who laugh and talk in their kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mistresses imagine are unknown to all the world save themselves,--who will judge the morals of a Duke, and tear the reputation of a Duchess to shreds, for the least, the most trifling error of conduct! If you can stand well with your servants, you can stand well with the whole world--if not--carry yourself as haughtily as you may--your pride will not last long, depend upon it!
Meanwhile, as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side paths of the shrubbery, the gay guests of the Manor were dancing on the lawn. Thelma did not dance,--she reclined in a low basket-chair, fanning herself. George Lorimer lay stretched in lazy length at her feet, and near her stood her husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a little distance, under the shadow of a noble beech, sat Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest conversation. It was to Mrs. Marvelle that the Van Clupps owed their invitation for this one day down to Errington Manor,--for Thelma herself was not partial to them. But she did not like to refuse Mrs. Marvelle's earnest entreaty that they should be asked,--and that good-natured, scheming lady having gained her point, straightway said to Marcia Van Clupp somewhat severely-"Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If you don't hook Masherville at the Carringten fête, you'll lose him! You mark my words!"